Bleaeke's House in Blackmwore

John Bleaeke he had a bit o' groundCome to en by his mother's zide;An' after that, two hunderd poundHis uncle left en when he died;"Well now," cried John, "my mind's a-bentTo build a house, an' pay noo rent."An' Meaery gi'ed en her consent."Do, do,"--the maidens cried"True, true,"--his wife replied."Done, done,--a house o' brick or stwone,"Cried merry Bleaeke o' Blackmwore.

Then John he call'd vor men o' skill,An' builders answer'd to his call;An' met to reckon, each his bill;Vor vloor an' window, ruf an' wall.An' woone did mark it on the groun',An' woone did think, an' scratch his crown,An' reckon work, an' write it down:"Zoo, zoo,"--woone treaedesman cried,"True, true,"--woone mwore replied."Aye, aye,--good work, an' have good pay,"Cried merry Bleaeke o' Blackmwore.

The work begun, an' trowels rung,An' up the bricken wall did rise,An' up the slanten refters sprung,Wi' busy blows, an' lusty cries!An' woone brought planks to meaeke a vloor,An' woone did come wi' durns or door,An' woone did zaw, an' woone did bore,"Brick, brick,--there down below,Quick, quick,--why b'ye so slow?""Lime, lime,--why we do weaeste the time,Vor merry Bleaeke o' Blackmwore."

The house wer up vrom groun' to tun,An' thatch'd ageaen the rainy sky,Wi' windows to the noonday zun,Where rushy Stour do wander by.In coo'se he had a pworch to screenThe inside door, when win's wer keen,An' out avore the pworch, a green."Here! here!"--the childern cried:"Dear! dear!"--the wife replied;"There, there,--the house is perty feaeir,"Cried merry Bleaeke o' Blackmwore.

Then John he ax'd his friends to warmHis house, an' they, a goodish batch,Did come alwone, or eaerm in eaerm,All roads, a-meaeken vor his hatch:An' there below the clavy beamThe kettle-spout did zing an' steam;An' there wer ceaekes, an' tea wi' cream."Lo! lo!"--the women cried;"Ho! ho!"--the men replied;"Health, health,--attend ye wi' your wealth,Good merry Bleaeke o' Blackmwore."

Then John, a-prais'd, flung up his crown,All back a-laughen in a roar.They prais'd his wife, an' she look'd downA-simperen towards the vloor.Then up they sprung a-dancen reels,An' up went tooes, an' up went heels,A-winden roun' in knots an' wheels."Brisk, brisk,"--the maidens cried;"Frisk, frisk,"--the men replied;"Quick, quick,--there wi' your fiddle-stick,"Cried merry Bleaeke o' Blackmwore.

An' when the morrow's zun did sheen,John Bleaeke beheld, wi' jay an' pride,His bricken house, an' pworch, an' green,Above the Stour's rushy zide.The zwallows left the lwonesome groves,To build below the thatchen oves,An' robins come vor crumbs o' lwoaves:"Tweet, tweet,"--the birds all cried;"Sweet, sweet,"--John's wife replied;"Dad, dad,"--the childern cried so glad,To merry Bleaeke o' Blackmwore.