Za. adv. So.

ZAc. v. Say.

ZAct. adj. Soft.

Za'tenfare. adj. Softish: applied to the intellects.

To Zam. v. a. To heat for some time over the fire, but not to boil.

Zam'zod, Zam'zodden. adj. Any thing heated for a long time time in a low heat so as to be in part spoiled, is said to be zamzodden.

Conjecture, in etymology, may be always busy. It is not improbable that this word is a compound of semi, Latin, half; and to seethe, to boil: so that Zamzodden will then mean, literally, half-boiled.

Zand. s. Sand.

Zandy. adj. Sandy.

Zand-tot. s. A sand-hill.

To Zee. v. a. pret. and part. Zid, Zeed. To see.

ZeeAd. s. Seed. ZeeAd-lip. See SEED-LIP.

Zel. pron. Self.

Zen'vy. s. Wild mustard.

The true etymology will be seen at once in sA(nevA(, French, from sinapi, Latin, contracted and corrupted into Zenvy, Somersetian.

Zil'ker. See SILKER.

Zim, Zim'd. v. Seem, seemed.

Zitch. adj. Such.

ZooAp. s. Soap.

Zog. s. Soft, boggy land; moist land.

Zog'gy. adj. Boggy; wet.

Zoon'er. adv. Rather.

To Zound, To Zoun'dy. v. n. To swoon.

To Zuf'fy. v. n. See TO SUFFY.

Zug'gers! ' This is a word, like others of the same class, the precise meaning of which it is not easy to define. I dare say it is a composition of two, or more words, greatly corrupted in pronunciation.

Zull. s. The instrument used for ploughing land; a plough.

Zum. pron. Some.

Zum'met. pron. Somewhat; something.

Zunz. adv. Since.

To Zwail. v. n. To move about with the arms extended, and up and down.

To Zwang. v. n. and v. n. To swing; to move to and fro.

Zwang. s. A swing.

To Zwell. v. a. To swell; to swallow. See TO SWELL.

Zwird. s. Sword.

Zwod'der. s. A drowsy and stupid state of body or mind.

Derived, most probably, from sudor, Latin, a sweat.



POEMS AND OTHER PIECES EXEMPLIFYING THE DIALECT OF THE

County of Somersetshire.

Notwithstanding the Author has endeavoured, in the Observations on the Dialects of the West, and in The Glossary, to obviate the difficulties under which strangers to the dialect of Somersetshire may, very possibly, labour in the perusal of the following Poems, it may be, perhaps, useful here to remind the reader, that many mere inversions of sound, and differences in pronunciation, are not noted in the Glossary. That it did not appear necessary to explain such words as_ wine, _wind;_ zAc, _say;_ qut, _coat;_ bwile, _boil_; hoss, _horse;_ hirches, _riches; and many others, which it is presumed the_ context, _the_ Observations, _or the_ Glossary, _will sufficiently explain. The Author, therefore, trusts, that by a careful attention to these, the reader will soon become_ au fait _at the interpretation of these West-country_ LIDDENS.

GOOD BWYE TA THEE COT!

Good bwye ta thee Cot! whaur tha dAcs o' my childhood Glaw'd bright as tha zun in a mornin o' mAc; When tha dumbledores hummin, craup out o' tha cobwAcll, An' shakin ther whings, thAc vleed vooAth an' awAc. [Footnote: The humble-bee, bombilius major, or dumbledore, makes holes very commonly in mud walls, in which it deposits a kind of farina: in this bee will be found, on dissection, a considerable portion of honey, although it never deposits any.]

Good bwye ta the Cot!—on thy drashel, a-mAc-be, I niver naw moor sholl my voot again zet; Tha jessamy awver thy porch zweetly bloomin, Whauriver I goo, I sholl niver vorget.

Tha rawzes, tha lillies, that blaw in tha borders— The gilawfers, too, that I us'd ta behawld— Tha trees, wi' tha honeyzucks ranglin Acll awver, I Aclways sholl think o' nif I shood be awld.

Tha tutties that oten I pick'd on a zunday, And stickt in my qut—thAc war thawted za fine: Aw how sholl I tell o'm—vor Acll pirty maidens When I pass'd 'em look'd back—ther smill rawze on tha wine.

Good bwye ta thee Ash! which my Father beforne me, A planted, wi' pleasure, tha dAc I was born; ZAc, oolt thou drap a tear when I cease to behawld thee, An wander awAc droo tha wordle vorlorn.

Good bwye ta thee Tree! an thy cawld shade in zummer; Thy apples, aw who ool be lotted ta shake? When tha wine, mangst thy boughs sifes at Milemas in sorrow, ZAc oolt thou sife for me, or one wild wish awake?

Good bwye ye dun Elves! who, on whings made o'leather, Still roun my poorch whiver an' whiver at night; Aw mAc naw hord-horted, unveelin disturber, DestrAcy your snug nests, an your plAc by moonlight.

Good bwye ta thee Bower!—ta thy moss an thy ivy— To tha flowers that aroun thee all blossomin graw; When I'm gwon, oolt thou grieve?—bit 'tis foolish to ax it; What is ther that's shower in this wordle belaw?

Good bwye ta thee Cot! whaur my mother za thoughtvul, As zumtimes she war droo er care vor us Acll, Er lessins wi' kindness, wi' tenderness gid us; An ax'd, war she dead, what ood us bevAcll.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! whaur tha nightingale's music, In tha midnight o' MAc-time, rawze loud on the ear; Whaur tha colley awAck'd, wi' tha zun, an a zingin A went, wi' tha dirsh, in a voice vull and clear.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! I must goo ta tha city. Whaur, I'm tawld, that the smawk makes it dork at noon dAc; Bit nif it is true, I'm afeard that I Aclways And iver sholl thenk on tha cot thatch'd wi' strAc.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! there is One that rAcins awver, An wActches tha wordle, wi' wisdom divine; Than why shood I mang, wi' tha many, my ma-bes; Bin there's readship in Him, an to him I resign.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! shood I niver behauld thee Again; still I thank thee vor Acll that is past! Thy friendly ruf shelter'd—while mother wActch'd awver. An haw'd vor my comfort vrom vust unto last.

Good bwye ta thee Cot; vor the time mAc be longful Beforn I on thy drashall again zet my eye; Thy tutties ool blossom, an daver an blossom Again and again—zaw good bwye, an good bwye!



FANNY FEAR

The melancholy incident related in the following story, actually occurred a few years ago at Shapwick.

Good Gennel-vawk! an if you please To lissen to my storry, A mAc-be 'tis a jitch a one, Ool make ye zummet zorry.

'Tis not a hoozay tale of grief, A put wi' ort together, That where you cry, or where you laugh, Da matter not a veather;

Bit 'tis a tale vor sartin true, Wi' readship be it spawken; I knaw it all, begummers! well, By tale, eese, an by tawken.

The maid's right name war FANNY FEAR, A tidy body lookin; An she cood brew, and she cood bake, An dumplins bwile, and skimmer cake; An all the like o' cookin.

Upon a Zunday Acternoon, Beforne the door a stanin, To zee er chubby cheaks za hird, An whitist lilies roun 'em spird, A damas rawze her han in,

Ood do your hort good; an er eyes, Dork, vull, an bright, an sporklin; Tha country lads could not goo by, Bit look thAc must—she iver shy, Ood blish—tha timid lorklin!

Her dame war to her desperd kind; She knaw'd er well dezarvin: She gid her good advice an claws, At which she niver toss'd her naws, As zum ool, thawf pon starvin.

She oten yarly upp'd to goo A milkin o' tha dairy; The meads ring'd loudly wi' er zong; Aw how she birshed the grass along, As lissom as a vairy!

She war as happy as a prince; Naw princess moor o' pleasure When well-at-eased cood iver veel; She ly'd her head upon her peel, An vound athin a treasure.

There war a dessent comly youth, Who took'd to her a likin; An when a don'd in zunday claws, You'd thenk en zummet I suppaws, A look'd so desperd strikin.

His vace war like a zummer dAc, When Acll the birds be zingin; Smiles an good nature dimplin stood, An moor besides, an Acll za good, Much pleasant promise bringin.

Now Jan war sawber, and afeard Nif he in haste shood morry, That he mid long repent thereof; An zo a thwart 'twar best not, thawf To stAc mid make en zorry.

Jan oten pAcss'd the happy door, There Fanny stood a scrubbin; An Fanny hired hiz pleasant voice, An thawt—"An if she had er choice!" An veel'd athin a drubbin.

Bit Jan did'n hulder long iz thawts; Vor thorough iv'ry cranny, Hirn'd of iz Lort tha warm hird tide; An a cood na moor iz veelins bide, Bit tell 'em must to Fanny.

To Fanny, than, one Whitsun eve, A tawld er how a lov'd er; Naw dove, a zed to er cood be Moor faithvul than to her ood he; His hort had long appruv'd er.

Wi' timourous blishin, Fanny zed, "A maid mist not believe ye; Vor men ool tell ther lovin tale, And awver seely maids prevail— Bit I dwont like ta grieve ye:

Vor nif za be you now zAc true— That you've for I a fancy: (Aw Jan! I dwont veel desperd well, An what's tha cAcze, I cannot tell), You'll zAc na moor to Nancy."

Twar zaw begin'd their zweetortin; BooAth still liv'd in their places; Zometimes thAc met bezides tha stile; Wi' pleasant look an tender smile Gaz'd in each wither's faces.

In spreng-time oten on tha nap Ood Jan and Fanny linger; An when war vooAs'd to zAc "good bwye," Ood meet again, wi' draps in eye, While haup ood pwint er vinger.

Zo pass'd tha dAcs—tha moons awAc, An haup still whiver'd nigh; Nif Fanny's dreams high pleasures vill, Of her Jan's thawts the lidden still, An oten too the zigh.

Bit still Jan had not got wherewi' To venter eet to morry; Alas-a-dAc! when poor vawk love, How much restraint how many pruv; How zick zum an how zorry.

Aw you who live in houzen grate, An wherewi' much possessin, You knaw not, mAc-be, care not you, What pangs jitch tender horts pursue, How grate nor how distressin.

Jan sar'd a varmer vour long years, An now iz haups da brighten: A gennelman of high degree Choos'd en iz hunsman vor to be; His Fanny's hort da lighten!

"Now, Fan," zed he, "nif I da live, Nex zummer thee bist mine; Sir John ool gee me wauges good, AmAc-be too zum viA"r ood!" His Fan's dork eyes did shine.

"To haw vor thee, my Fan," a cried, "I iver sholl delight; Thawf I be poor, 'tool be my pride To ha my Fan vor a buxom bride— My lidden dAc an night."

A took er gently in iz orms An kiss'd er za zweetly too; His Fan, vor jay, not a word cood speak, Bit a big roun tear rawl'd down er cheak, It zimm'd as thawf er hort ood break— She cood hordly thenk it true.

To zee our hunsman goo abroad, His houns behind en volly; His tossel'd cap—his whip's smort smack, His hoss a prancin wi' tha crack, His whissle, horn, an holler, back! Ood cure Acll malancholy.

It happ'd on a dork an wintry night, Tha stormy wine a blawin; Tha houns made a naise an a dismal yell; Jitch as zum vawk zAc da death vaurtell, The cattle loud war lawin.

Tha hunsman wAckid an down a went; A thawt ta keep 'em quiet; A niver stopped izzel ta dress, Bit a went in iz shirt vor readiness A voun a dirdful riot.

Bit Acll thic night a did not come back; All night tha dogs did raur; In tha mornin thAc look'd on tha kannel stwons An zeed 'em cover'd wi' gaur an bwons, The vlesh Acll vrom 'em a taur.

His head war left—the head o' Jan Who lov'd hiz Fanny za well; An a bizzy gossip, as gossips be Who've work o' ther awn bit vrom it vlee, To Fanny went ta tell.

She hirn'd, she vleed ta meet tha man Who corr'd er dear Jan's head: An when she zeed en Acll blood an gaur, She drapp'd down speechless jist avaur, As thauf she had bin dead.

Poor Fanny com'd ta erzel again, Bit her senses left her vor iver! An all she zed, ba dAc or night— Vor sleep it left her eye-lids quite— War, "why did he goo in the cawld ta shiver?— Niver, O Jan! sholl I zee the, niver!"

[Footnote: See a letter by Edward Band, on this subject, in the prose pieces.]



JERRRY NUTTY; OR THE MAN OF MORK.

Awa wi' Acll yer tales o' grief, An dismal storry writin;

A mAc-be zumthin I mAc zing Ool be as much delightin.

Zumtime agoo, bevaur tha moors War tin'd in, lived at Mork One JERRY NUTTY—spry a war; A upp'd avaur the lork.

Iz vather in a little cot Liv'd, auver-right tha moor, An thaw a kipt a vlock o' geese, A war a thoughted poor.

A niver teach'd tha cris-cross-lain Ta any of his bways, An Jerry, mangst the rest o'm, did Not much appruv his ways.

Vor Jerry zumtimes went ta church Ta hire tha PAcson preach, An thawt what pity that ta read Izzel a cood'n teach.

Vor than, a zunday Acternoon, Tha Bible, or good book Would be companion vit vor'm Acll Who choos'd therein ta look.

Bit Jerry than tha naise o' geese Bit little moor could hire;

An dAcly goose-aggs ta pick up Droo-out tha moor did tire.

A Aten look'd upon tha hills An stickle mountains roun, An wished izzel upon their taps: What zights a ood be bA un!

Bit what did mooAst iz fancy strick War Glassenberry Torr: A Aclways zeed it when tha zun Gleam'd wi' tha mornin stor.

O' Well's grate church a Aten hired, Iz fancy war awake; An zaw a thawt that zoon a ood A journey ta it make.

An Glassenberry's Torr, an Thorn The hawly blowth of which A hired from one and tother too; Tha like war never jitch!

Bit moor o' this I need not zAc, Vor off went Jerry Nutty, In hiz right hon a wAckin stick, An in hiz qut a tutty.

Now, lock-y-zee! in whimly dress Trudg'd chearful Jerry on;

Bit on tha moor not vur a went— A made a zudden ston.

Which wAc ta goo a cood not thenk, Vor there war many a wAc; A put upright iz walking stick; A vAcll'd ta tha zon o' dAc.

Ta tha suthard than iz wAc a took Athert tha turfy moors, An zoon o' blissom Cuzziton, [Footnote: Cossington.] A pass'd tha cottage doors.

Tha maidens o' tha cottages, Not us'd strange vawk to zee, Com'd vooAth and stood avaur tha door; Jer wonder'd what cood be.

Zum smil'd, zum whecker'd, zum o'm blish'd. "Od dang it!" Jerry zed, "What do tha think that I be like?" An nodded to 'm iz head.

"Which is tha wAc to Glassenberry? I've hired tha hawly thorn War zet there by zum hawly hons Zoon Acter Christ war born;

An I've a mine ta zee it too, An o' tha blowth ta take." "An how can you, a seely man, Jitch seely journey make?

"What! dwont ye knaw that now about It is the midst o' June? Tha hawly thorn at Kirsmas blaws— You be zix months too zoon.

Goo whim again, yea gAcwky! goo!" Zaw zed a damsel vair As dewy mornin late in MAc; An Jerry wide did stare.

"Lord Miss!" zed he, "I niver thawt, O' Kirsmas!—while I've shoes, To goo back now I be zet out, Is what I sholl not choose.

I'll zee the Torr an hawly thorn, An Glassenberry too; An, nif you'll put me in tha wAc, I'll gee grate thanks ta you."

Goo droo thic veel an up thic lane, An take tha lift hon path, Than droo Miss Crossman's backzid strait, Ool bring ye up ta Wrath.

Now mine, whaur you do turn again At varmer Veal's long yacker, ClooAse whaur Jan Lide, tha cobler, lives Who makes tha best o' tacker;

You mist turn short behine tha house An goo right droo tha shord, An than you'll pass a zummer lodge, A builded by tha lord.

Tha turnpick than is jist belaw, An Cock-hill strait avaur ye." Za Jerry doff'd his hat an bow'd, An thank'd er vor er storry.

Bit moor o' this I need not zAc, Vor off went Jerry Nutty; In his right hand a wAckin stick, An in hiz qut a tutty.

Bit I vorgot to zAc that Jer A zatchel wi' en took To hauld zum bird an cheese ta ate;— Iz drink war o' tha brook.

Za when a got upon Cock-hill Upon a linch a zawt; The zun had climmer'd up tha sky; A voun it very hot.

An, as iz stomick war za good, A made a horty meal; An werry war wi' wAckin, zaw A sleepid zoon did veel.

That blessed power o' bAcmy sleep, Which auver ivery sense Da wi' wild whiverin whings extend A happy influence;

Now auver Jerry Nutty drow'd Er lissom mantle wide; An down a drapp'd in zweetest zleep, Iz zatchel by iz zide.

Not all tha nasty stouts could wAcke En vrom iz happy zleep, Nor emmets thick, nor vlies that buz, An on iz hons da creep.

Naw dreams a had; or nif a had MooAst pleasant dreams war thAc: O' geese an goose-aggs, ducks and jitch; Or Mally, vur awAc,

Zum gennelmen war dreavin by In a gilded cawch za gAc; ThAc zeed en lyin down asleep; ThAc bid the cawchman stAc.

ThAc bAcll'd thAc hoop'd—a niver wAck'd; Naw houzen there war handy; Zed one o'm, "Nif you like, my bways, "We'll ha a little randy!"

"Jist put en zActly in tha cawch An dreav en ta BejwActer; An as we Acll can't g'in wi'n here, I'll come mysel zoon Acter."

Twar done at once: vor norn o'm car'd A strAc vor wine or weather; Than gently rawl'd the cawch along, As zAct as any veather.

Bit Jerry snaur'd za loud, tha naise Tha gennelmen did gally; ThAc'd hAcf a mind ta turn en out; A war dreamin o' his Mally!

It war the morkit dAc as rawl'd Tha cawch athin BejwActer; ThAc drauv tip ta the Crown-Inn door, Ther MAc-game man com'd Acter.

"Here Maester WActer! Lock-y-zee! A-mAc-be you mid thenk Thic mon a snauren in tha cawch Is auvercome wi' drenk.

Bit 'tis not not jitchy theng we knaw; A is a cunjerin mon, Vor on Cock-hill we vound en ly'd Iz stick stif in his hon.

Iz vace war cover'd thick wi' vlies An bloody stouts a plenty; Nif he'd o pumple voot bezide, An a brumstick vor'n to zit ascride, O' wizards a mid be thawt tha pride, Amangst a kit o' twenty."

"Lord zur! an why d'ye bring en here To gally Acll tha people? Why zuggers! nif we frunt en than, He'll auver-dro tha steeple.

I bag ye, zur, to take en vooAth; There! how iz teeth da chatter; Lawk zur! vor Christ—look there again! A'll witchify BejwActer!"

Tha gennelman stood by an smiled To zee tha bussle risin: Yor zoon, droo-out tha morkit wide Tha news wor gwon saprisin.

An round about tha cawch thAc dring'd— Tha countryman and townsman; An young an awld, an man an maid— Wi' now an tan, an here an there, Amang tha crowd to gape an stare, A doctor and a gownsman.

Jitch naise an bother wAckid zoon Poor hormless Jerry Nutty, A look'd astunn'd;—a cood'n speak! An daver'd war iz tutty.

A niver in his life avaur 'ad been athin BejwActer; A thawt, an if a war alive, That zummet war tha matter.

Tha houzen cling'd together zaw! Tha gennelmen an ladies! Tha blacksmith's, brazier's hammers too! An smauk whauriver trade is.

Bit how a com'd athin a cawch A war amaz'd at thenkin; A thawt, vor sartin, a must be A auvercome wi' drenkin.

ThAc ax'd en nif a'd please to g'out An ta tha yalhouse g'in; Bit thAc zo clooAse about en dring'd A cood'n goo athin.

Ta g'under 'em or g'auver 'em A try'd booActh grate and smAcll; Bit g'under, g'auver, g'in, or g'out, A cood'n than at Acll.

"Lord bless ye! gennel-vawk!" zed he, I'm come to Glassenberry To zee tha Torr an Hawly Thorn; What makes ye look za merry?"

"Why mister wizard? dwont ye knaw, TheAse town is cAcll'd BejwActer!" Cried out a whipper-snapper man: ThAc all bust out in lAcughter.

"I be'nt a wizard, zur!" a zed; "Bit I'm a little titch'd; [Footnote: Touched.] "Or, witherwise, you mid well thenk I'm, zure anow, bewitch'd!"

Thaw Jerry war, vor Acll tha wordle, Like very zel o' quiet, A veel'd iz blood ta bwile athin At jitchy zort o' riot;

Za out a jump'd amangst 'em Acll! A made a desperd bussle; Zum hirn'd awAc—zum made a ston; Wi' zum a had a tussle.

Iz stick now sar'd 'em justice good; It war a tough groun ash; Upon ther heads a plAc'd awAc, An round about did drash.

ThAc belg'd, thAc raur'd, thAc scamper'd Acll. A zoon voun rum ta stoory; A thawt a'd be reveng'd at once, Athout a judge or jury.

An, thaw a brawk navy-body's bwons, A gid zum bloody nawzes; Tha pirty maids war fainty too; Hirn'd vrom ther cheaks tha rawzes.

Thinks he, me gennelmen! when nex I goo to Glassenbery, Yea shant ha jitch a rig wi' I, Nor at my cost be merry.

Zaw, havin clear'd izzel a wAc. Right whim went Jerry Nutty; A flourished roun iz wAckin stick; An vleng'd awAc iz tutty.



A LEGEND OF GLASTONBURY.

[First Printed in "Graphic Illustrator, p. 124.]

I cannot do better than introduce here "A Legend of Glastonbury," made up, not from books, but from oral tradition once very prevalent in and near Glastonbury, which had formerly one of the richest Abbeys in England; the ruins are still attractive.

Who hath not hir'd o' Avalon? [Footnote: "The Isle of ancient Avelon."—Drayton.] 'Twar talked o' much an long agon,— Tha wonders o' tha Holy Thorn, Tha "wich, zoon Acter Christ war born, Here a planted war by ArimathA(, Thic Joseph that com'd auver sea, An planted Kirstianity. ThAc zAc that whun a landed vust, (Zich plazen war in God's own trust) A stuck iz staff into tha groun An auver iz shoulder lookin roun, Whatever mid iz lot bevAcll, A cried aloud "Now, weary all!" Tha staff het budded an het grew, An at Kirsmas bloom'd tha whol dAc droo. An still het blooms at Kirsmas bright, But best thAc zAc at dork midnight, A pruf o' this nif pruf you will. Iz voun in tha name o' Weary-all-hill! Let tell Pumparles or lazy Brue. That what iz tauld iz vor sartin true!

["The story of the Holy Thorn was a long time credited by the vulgar and credulous. There is a species of White Thorn which blossoms about Christmas; it is well known to naturalists so as to excite no surprise."]



MR. GUY.

The incident on which this story is founded, occurred in the early part of the last century; hence the allusion to making a will before making a journey to the metropolis.

Mr. Guywar a gennelman O' Huntspill, well knawn As a grazier, a hirch one, Wi' lons o' hiz awn.

A Aten went ta Lunnun Hiz cattle vor ta zill; All tha horses that a rawd Niver minded hadge or hill.

A war afeard o' naw one; A niver made hiz will, Like wither vawk, avaur a went His cattle vor ta zill.

One time a'd bin ta Lunnun An zawld iz cattle well; A brought awAc a power o' gawld, As I've a hired tell.

As late at night a rawd along All droo a unket ood, A ooman rawze vrom off tha groun An right avaur en stood:

She look'd za pitis Mr. Guy At once hiz hoss's pace Stapt short, a wonderin how, at night, She com'd in jitch a place.

A little trunk war in her hon; She zim'd vur gwon wi' chile. She ax'd en nif a'd take her up And cor her a veo mile.

Mr. Guy, a man o' veelin For a ooman in distress, Than took er up behind en: A cood'n do na less.

A corr'd er trunk avaur en, An by hiz belt o' leather A bid er hawld vast; on thAc rawd, Athout much tAck, together.

Not vur thAc went avaur she gid A whissle loud an long; Which Mr. Guy, thawt very strange; Er voice too zim'd za strong!

She'd lost er dog, she zed; an than Another whissle blaw'd, That stortled Mr. Guy;—a stapt Hiz hoss upon tha rawd.

Goo on, zed she; bit Mr. Guy Zum rig beginn'd ta fear: Vor voices rawze upon tha wine, An zim'd a comin near.

Again thAc rawd along; again She whissled. Mr. Guy Whipt out hiz knife an cut tha belt, Then push'd er off!—Vor why?

Tha ooman he took up behine, Begummers, war a man! Tha rubbers zaw ad lAcd ther plots Our grazier to trepan.

I shall not stap ta tell what zed Tha man in ooman's clawze; Bit he, and all o'm jist behine, War what you mid suppawze.

ThAc cust, thAc swaur, thAc dreaten'd too, An ater Mr. Guy ThAc gallop'd all; 'twar niver-tha-near: Hiz hoss along did vly.

Auver downs, droo dales, awAc a went, 'Twar dAc-light now amawst, Till at an inn a stapt, at last, Ta thenk what he'd a lost.

A lost?—why, nothin—but hiz belt!— A zummet moor ad gain'd: Thic little trunk a corr'd awAc— It gawld g'lore contain'd!

Nif Mr. Guy war hirch avaur, A now war hircher still: Tha plunder o' tha highwAcmen Hiz coffers went ta vill.

In sAcfety Mr. Guy rawd whim; A Aten tawld tha storry. Ta meet wi' jitch a rig myzel I shood'n, soce, be zorry.



THE ROOKERY.

The rook, corvus frugilegus, is a bird of considerable intelligence, and is, besides, extremely useful in destroying large quantities of worms and larvA of destructive insects. It will, it is true, if not watched, pick out, after they are dibbled, both pease and beans from the holes with a precision truly astonishing: a very moderate degree of care is, however, sufficient to prevent this evil, which is greatly overbalanced by the positive good which it effects in the destruction of insects. It is a remarkable fact, and not, perhaps, generally known, that this bird rarely roosts at the rookery, except for a few months during the period of incubation, and rearing its young. In the winter season it more commonly takes flights of no ordinary length, to roost on the trees of some remote and sequestered wood. The Elm is its favorite, on which it usually builds; but such is its attachment to locality that since the incident alluded to in the following Poem took place the Rooks have, many of them, built in fir trees at a little distance from their former habitation. The habits of the Rook are well worthy the attention of all who delight in the study of Natural History.

My zong is o' tha ROOKERY, Not jitch as I a zeed On stunted trees wi' leaves a veo, A very veo indeed,

In thic girt place thAc Lunnun cAcll;— Tha Tower an tha Pork HAc booAth a got a Rookery, Althaw thAc han't a Lork.

I zeng not o' jitch Rookeries, Jitch plazen, pump or banners; Bit town-berd Rooks, vor Acll that, hAc, I warnt ye, curious manners.

My zong is o' a Rookery My Father's cot bezide, Avaur, years Acter, I war born 'Twar long tha porish pride.

Tha elms look'd up like giants tAcll Ther branchy yarms aspread; An green plumes wavin wi' tha wine, Made gAc each lofty head.

Ta drAc tha pectur out—ther war At distance, zid between Tha trees, a thatch'd Form-house, an geese A cacklin on tha green.

A river, too, clooAse by tha trees, Its stickle coose on slid, Whaur yells an trout an wither fish Mid Atentimes be zid.

Tha rooks voun this a pleasant place— A whim ther young ta rear; An I a Aten pleas'd a bin Ta wActch 'em droo tha year.

'Tis on tha dAc o' Valentine Or there or thereabout, Tha rooks da vast begin ta build, An cawin, make a rout.

Bit aw! when May's a come, ta zee Ther young tha gunner's shut Vor SPOORT, an bin, as zum da zAc, (Naw readship in't I put)

That nif thAc did'n shut tha, rooks ThAc'd zoon desert tha trees! Wise vawk! Thic reason vor ther SPOORT Gee thAc mid nif thAc please!

Still zeng I o' tha Rookery, Vor years it war tha pride Of all thAc place, bit 'twor ta I A zumthin moor bezide.

A hired tha Rooks avaur I upp'd; I hired 'em droo tha dAc; I hired ther young while gittin flush An ginnin jist ta cAc.

I hired 'em when my mother gid Er lessins kind ta I, In jitch a wAc when I war young, That I war fit ta cry.

I hired 'em at tha cottage door, When mornin, in tha spreng, WAck'd vooAth in youth an beauty too, An birds beginn'd ta zeng.

I hired 'em in tha winter-time When, roustin vur awAc, ThAc visited tha Rookery A whiverin by dAc.

My childhood, youth, and manood too, My Father's cot recAcll Thic Rookery. Bit I mist now Tell what it did bevAcll.

'Twar MAc-time—heavy vi' tha nests War laden Acll tha trees; An to an fraw, wi' creekin loud, ThAc sway'd ta iv'ry breeze.

One night tha wine—a thundrin wine, Jitch as war hired o' nivor, Blaw'd two o' thic girt giant trees Flat down into tha river.

Nests, aggs, an young uns, Acll awAc War zweept into tha wActer An zaw war spwiled tha Rookery Vor iver and iver Acter.

I visited my Father's cot: Tha Rooks war Acll a gwon; Whaur stood tha trees in lofty pride I zid there norra one.

My Father's cot war desolate; An Acll look'd wild, vorlorn; Tha Ash war stunted that war zet Tha dAc that I war born.

My Father, Mother, Rooks, Acll gwon! My Charlotte an my Lizzy!— Tha gorden wi' tha tutties too!— Jitch thawts why be za bizzy!—

Behawld tha wAc o' human thengs! Rooks, lofty trees, an Friends— A kill'd, taur up, like leaves drap off!— Zaw feaver'd bein ends.



TOM GOOL, AND LUCK IN THA BAG.

"Luck, Luck in tha Bag! Good Luck! Put in an try yer fortin; Come, try yer luck in tha Lucky Bag! You'll git a prize vor sartin."

MooAst plazen hAc their customs Ther manners an ther men; We too a got our customs, Our manners and our men.

He who a bin ta Huntspill FAcyer Or Highbridge—Pawlet Revel— Or Burtle Sassions, whaur thAc plAc Zumtimes tha very devil,

Mist mine once a man well That war a cAcll'd TOM GOOL; Zum thawt en mazed, while withers thawt En moor a knave than fool.

At all tha fAcyers an revels too TOM GOOL war shower ta be, A tAckin vlother vast awAc,— A hoopin who bit he.

Vor' Acll that a had a zoort o' wit That zet tha vawk a laughin; An mooAst o' that, when ho tha yal Ad at tha fAcyer bin quaffin.

A corr'd a kit o' pedlar's waur, Like awld Joannah Martin; [Footnote: This Lady, who was for many years known in Somersetshire as an itinerant dealer in earthenware, rags, &c., and occasionally a fortune-teller, died a few years since at Huntspill, where she had resided for the greater part of a century. She was extremely illiterate, so much so, as not to be able to write, and, I think, could scarcely read. She lived for some years in a house belonging to my father, and while a boy, I was very often her gratuitous amanuensis, in writing letters for her to her children. She possessed, however, considerable shrewdness, energy, and perseverance, and amassed property to the amount of several hundred pounds. She had three husbands; the name of the first was, I believe, Gool or Gould, a relation of Thomas Gool, the subject of the above Poem; the name of the second was Martin, of the third Pain; but as the last lived a short time only after having married her, she always continued to be called Joannah Martin.

Joannah was first brought into public notice by the Rev. Mr. WARNER, in his Walks through the Western Counties, published in 1800, in which work will be found a lively and interesting description of her; but she often said that she should wish me to write her life, as I was, of course, more intimately acquainted with it than any casual inquirer could possibly be. An additional notice of Joannah was inserted by me in the Monthly Magazine, for Nov. 1816, page 310. I had among my papers, the original song composed by her, which I copied from her dictation many years ago,—the only, copy in existence; I regret that I cannot lay my hand upon it; as it contains much of the Somersetshire idiom. I have more than once heard her sing this song, which was satirical, and related to the conduct of a female, one of her neighbours, who had become a thief.

Such was JOANNAH MARTIN, a woman whose name (had she moved in a sphere where her original talents could have been improved by education,) might have been added to the list of distinguished female worthies of our country.

[The MS. song was never, that I am aware of, discovered after my relative's death.—Editor, J. K. J.]] An nif yon hAcn't a hired o' her, You zumtime sholl vor sartin.

"Luck, Luck in tha Bag!" TOM, cried "Put in and try yer fortin; Come try yer luck in tha lucky bag; You'll git a prize vor sartin.

All prizes, norra blank, Norra blank, Acll prizes! A waiter—knife—or scissis sheer— A splat o' pins—put in my dear!— Whitechapel nills Acll sizes.

Luck, Luck in tha Bag!—only a penny vor a venter—you mid get, a- ma-be, a girt prize—a Rawman waiter!—I can avoord it as cheep as thic that stawl it—I a bote it ta trust, an niver intend to pAc vor't. Luck, Luck in tha bag! Acll prizes; norra blank!

Luck, Luck in tha Bag! Good Luck! Put in an try yer fortin; Come, try yer luck in tha lucky bag! You'll git a prize vor sartin.

Come, niver mine tha single-sticks, Tha whoppin or tha stickler, You dwon't want now a brawken head, "Nor jitchy zoort o' tickler!

Now Lady! yer prize is—'A SNUFF-BOX,' A treble-japann'd Pontypool! You'll shower come again ta my luck in tha bag, Or niver trust me—TOMMY GOOL.

Luck, Luck in tha bag! Good Luck! Put in an try yer fortin; Come, try yer luck in tha lucky bag! You'll git a prize for sartin!



TEDDY BAND.

"The short and simple annals of the poor." GRAY.

Miss Hanson to Miss Mortimer. Ashcot, July 21st.

My Dear Jane.

Will you do me the favour to amuse yourself and your friends with the enclosed epistle? it is certainly an original—written in the dialect of the County. You will easily understand it, and, I do not doubt, the "moril" too.

Edward Band, or as he is more commonly called here, Teddy Band, is a poor, but honest and industrious cottager, but I am, nevertheless, disposed to think that "if ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise."

My dear Jane, affectionately yours,

MARIA HANSON.

Teddy Band to Miss Hanson.

MAcm,

I da thenk you'll smile at theeAzam here veo lains that I write ta you, bin I be naw scholard; vor vather coud'n avoord ta put I ta school. Bit nif you'll vorgee me vor my bauldniss, a-mAc-be, I mid not be afeard ta zAc zummet ta you that you, mAcm yourzell mid like ta hire. Bit how be I ta knaw that? I knaw that you be a goodhorted Lady, an da like ta zee poor vawk well-at-eased an happy. You axt I tother dAc ta zing a zong: now I dwont much like zum o' thAc zongs that I hired thic night at squire Reevs's when we made an end o' HAc-corrin: vor, zim ta I, there war naw moril to 'em. I like zongs wi' a moril to 'em. Tha nawtes, ta be shower, war zAct anow, bit, vor Acll that, I war looking vor tha moril, mAcm. Zo, when I cum'd whim, I tawld our Pall, that you axt I ta zing: an I war zorry Acterward that I did'n, bin you be Aclways zo desperd good ta poor vowk. Bit I thawt, a-mAc-be, you mid be angry wi' my country lidden. Why Teddy, zed Pall, dwontye zend Miss Hanson thic zong which ye made yerzel; I thenk ther is a moril in thic. An zo, mAcm, nif you please, I a zent tha zong. I haup you'll vorgee me.

MAcm, your humble sarvant,

TEDDY BAND.

ZONG.

I have a cot o' Cob-wAcll Roun which tha ivy clims; My Pally at tha night-vAcll Er crappin viA"r trims.

A comin vrom tha plow-veel I zee tha blankers rise, Wi' blue smauk cloudy curlin, An whivering up tha skies.

When tha winter wines be crousty, An snaws dreav vast along, I hurry whim—tha door tine, An cheer er wi' a zong.

When spreng, adresst in tutties, CAclls Acll tha birds abroad; An wrans an robin-riddicks, Tell Acll the cares o' God,

I zit bezides my cot-door After my work is done, While Pally, bizzy knittin, Looks at tha zottin zun.

When zummertime is passin, An narras dAcs be vine, I drenk tha sporklin cider, An wish naw wither wine.

How zweet tha smill o' clawver, How zweet tha smill o' hAc; How zweet is haulsom labour, ^ Bit zweeter Pall than thAc.

An who d'ye thenk I envy?— Tha nawbles o' tha land? ThAc can't be moor than happy, An that is Teddy Band.

Mister Ginnins;

I a red thic ballet o' yourn called Fanny Fear, an, zim ta I, there's naw moril to it. Nif zaw be you da thenk zo well o't, I'll gee one.

I dwont want to frunt any ov the gennelmen o' tha country, bit I Aclways a thawt it desperd odd, that dogs should be keept in a kannel, and keept a hungered too, zaw that thAc mid be moor eager to hunt thic poor little theng cAclled a hare. I dwon' naw, bit I da thenk, nif I war a gennelman, that I'd vine better spoort than huntin; bezides, zim ta I 'tis desperd wicked to hunt animals vor one's spoort. Now, jitch a horrid blanscue as what happened at Shapick, niver could a bin but vor tha hungry houns. I haup that gennelmen ool thenk o't oten; an when thAc da hire tha yell o' tha houns thAc'll not vorgit Fanny Fear; a-mAc-be thAc mid be zummet tha wiser an better vor't; I'm shower jitch a storry desarves ta be remimbered. This is the moril.

I am, sur, your sarvant,

TEDDY BAND.

THE CHURCHWARDEN.

Upon a time, naw matter whaur, Jitch plazen there be many a scaur In Zummerzet's girt gorden; (Ive hir'd 'twar handy ta tha zea, Not vur vrom whaur tha zantots be) There liv'd a young churchwarden.

A zim'd delighted when put in. An zaw a thawt a ood begin Ta do hiz office duly: Bit zum o'm, girt vawk in ther wAc— Tha Porish o'ten cAclled,—a girt bell sheep Or two that lead the rest an quiet keep— Put vooAth ther hons iz coose to stAc, Which made en quite unruly.

A went, of coose, ta VisitAction Ta be sworn in;—an than 'twar nAction Hord that a man his power should doubt,— An moor—ta try ta turn en out! "Naw, Naw!" exclaim'd our young churchwarden, I dwon't care vor ye Acll a copper varden!"

Tha church war durty.—Wevets here Hang'd danglin vrom tha ruf; an there Tha plaisterin shaw'd a crazy wAcll;

Tha Acltar-piece war dim and dowsty too, That Peter's maricle thAc scase cood view. Tha Ten Commandments nawbody cood rade; [Footnote: Read] Tha Lord's Prayer ad nuthin in't bit "Brade;" [Footnote: Bread] Nor had tha Creed A lain or letter parfit, grate or smAcll. 'Twar time vor zum one ta renew 'em Acll.

I've tawld o' wevets—zum o'm odd enow; ThAc look'd tha colour of a dork dun cow, An like a skin war stratched across tha corners; Tha knitters o' tha porish tAck'd o knittin Stocking wi' 'em!—Bit aw, how unbevittin All tAck like this!—aw fie, tha wicked scorners!

Ta work went tha Churchwarden; wevets tummel'd Down by tha bushel, an tha pride o' dowst war hummel'd. Tha wAclls once moor look'd bright. Tha Painter, fags, a war a Plummer An Glazier too, Put vooAth his powers, (His workin made naw little scummer!) In zentences, in flourishes, and flowers. Tha chancel, church and Acll look'd new, An war well suited to avoord delight.

Tha Ten Commandments glitter'd wi' tha vornish; Compleat now, tha Lord's Prayer, what cood tornish.

As vor tha Creed 'twar made bran new Vrom top ta bottom; I tell ye true! Tha Acltar piece wi' Peter war now naw libel Upon tha church, Which booAth athin an, tower an all, athout Look'd like a well-dressed maid in pride about; Tha walls rejAcic'd wi' texts took vrom tha Bible. Bit vor all that, thAc left en in tha lurch; I bag your pardon. I mean, of Acll tha expense thAc ood'n pAc a varden.

Jitch zweepin, birshin, paintin, scrubbin; Tha tuts ad niver jitch a drubbin; Jitch white-washin and jitch brought gwAcin A power of money—Tha Painter's bill Made of itzel a pirty pill, Ta zwell which Acll o'm tried in vain! Ther stomicks turn'd, ther drawts were norry; [Footnote: Narrow] Jitch gillded pills thAc cood'n corry. An when our young churchwarden ax'd em why, ThAc laugh'd at en, an zed, ther drawts war dry.

Tha keeper o' tha church war wrong; (Churchwarden still the burden o' my zong) A should at vust A cAcll'd a Vestry: vor 'tis hord ta trust To Porish generasity; an zaw A voun it: I dwon' knaw

Whaur or who war his advisers; Zum zed a LAcyer gid en bad advice; A-mAc-be saw; jitch vawk ben't always nice. LAcyers o' advice be seltimes misers Nif there's wherewi' ta pAc; Or, witherwise, good bwye ta LAcyers an tha LAc.

A Vestry than at last war cried— A Vestry's power let noAne deride— When tha church war auver tha clork bal'd out, Aw eese! aw eese! aw eese! All wonder'd what cood be about, An stratch'd ther necks like a vlock o' geese; Why—ta make a Rate Vor tha church's late RepairAction. A grate norAction, A nAction naise tha nawtice made, About tha cost ta be defray'd Vor tha church's repairAction.

Tha Vestry met, Acll naise an bother; One ood'n wait ta hire tha tuther. When thAc war tir'd o' jitch a gabble, Ta bAcl na moor not one war yable, A man, a little zActenfare, Got up hiz verdi ta delcare. Now Soce, zed he, why we be gwAcin Ta meet in Vestry here in vAcin.

Let's come to some determination, An not tAck Acll in jitch a fashion. Let's zee tha 'counts. A snatch'd tha book Vrom tha Churchwarden in't ta look. Tha, book war chain'd clooAse to his wrist; A gid en slily jitch a twist! That the young Churchwarden loud raur'd out, "You'll break my yarm!—what be about?"

Tha man a little zActenfare, An Acll tha Vestry wide did stare! Bit Soce, zed he again, I niver zeed Money brought gwAcin zaw bad. What need War ther tha Acltar-piece ta titch? What good war paintin, vornishin, an jitch? What good war't vor'n ta mend Tha Ten Commandments?—Why did he Mell o' tha Lord's Prayer? Lockyzee! Ther war naw need To mell or make wi' thic awld Creed. I'm zorry vor'n; eesse zorry as a friend; Bit can't conzent our wherewi' zaw ta spend,

ThAc Acll, wi one accord, At tha little zActenfare's word, Agreed, that, not one varden, By Rate, Should be collected vor tha late RepairAction Of tha church by tha young Churchwarden.



THE FISHERMAN AND THE PLAYERS.

Now who is ther that han't a hir'd O' one young TOM CAME? A Fisherman of Huntspill, An a well-knawn name.

A knaw'd much moor o' fishin Than many vawk bezides; An a knaw'd much moor than mooAst about Tha zea an Acll tha tides.

A knaw'd well how ta make buts, An hullies too an jitch, An up an down tha river whaur Tha best place vor ta pitch.

A knaw'd Acll about tha stake-hangs Tha zAclmon vor ta catch;— Tha pitchin an tha dippin net,— Tha Slime an tha Mud-Batch. [Footnote: Two islands well known in the River Parret, near its mouth. Several words will be found in this Poem which I have not placed in the Glossary, because they seem too local and technical to deserve a place there: they shall be here explained,

To Pitch, v.n. To fish with a boat and a pitchin-net in a proper position across the current so that the fish may be caught.

Pitchin-net. s. A large triangular net attached to two poles, and used with a boat for the purpose, chiefly, of catching salmon.—The fishing boats in the Parret, are flat- bottomed, in length about seventeen feet, about four feet and a half wide, and pointed at both ends: they are easily managed by one person, and rarely, if ever, known to overturn.

Dippen-net. s. A small net somewhat semicircular, and attached to two round sticks for sides, and a long pole for a handle. It is used for the purpose of dipping salmon and some other fish, as the shad, out of water.

Gad. s. A long pole, having an iron point to it, so that it may be easily thrust into the ground. Two gads are used for each boats. Their uses are to keep the boat steady across the current in order that the net may be in a proper position.]

A handled too iz gads well His paddle and iz oor; [Footnote: Oar.] A war Aclways bawld an fearless— A, when upon tha Goor. [Footnote: The Gore. Dangerous sands so called, at the mouth of the River Parret, in the Bristol Channel.]

O' heerins, sprats, an porpuses— O' Acll fish a cood tell; Who bit he amangst tha Fishermen— A Aclways bear'd tha bell.

Tommy Came ad hired o' PlAcyers, Bit niver zeed 'em plAc; ThAc war actin at BejwActer; There a went wi' Sally DAc.

When tha curtain first drAcw'd up, than Sapriz'd war Tommy Came; A'd hAcf a mine ta him awAc, Bit stapp'd vor very shame.

Tha vust act bein auver Tha zecond jist begun, Tommy Came still wonder'd grately, Ta him it war naw fun.

Zaw Acter lookin on zumtime, Ta understand did strive; There now, zed he, I'll gee my woth [Footnote: Oath.] That thAc be all alive!



MARY RAMSEY'S CRUTCH.

I zeng o' Mary Ramsey's Crutch! "Thic little theng!"—Why 'tis'n much It's true, but still I like ta touch Tha cap o' Mary Ramsey's Crutch! She zed, wheniver she shood die, Er little crutch she'd gee ta I. Did Mary love me? eese a b'leeve. She died—a veo vor her did grieve,— An but a veo—vor Mary awld, Outliv'd er friends, or voun 'em cawld. Thic crutch I had—I ha it still, An port wi't wont—nor niver will. O' her I lorn'd tha cris-cross-lAcin; I haup that't word'n quite in vAcin! 'Twar her who teach'd me vust ta read Jitch little words as beef an bread; An I da thenk 'twar her that, Acter, Lorn'd I ta read tha single zActer. Poor Mary Aten used ta tell O' das a past that pleas'd er well; An mangst tha rest war zum o' jay When I look'd up a little bway. She zed I war a good one too, An lorn'd my book athout tha rue. [Footnote: This Lady, when her scholars neglected their duty, or behaved ill, rubbed their fingers with the leaves of rue!] Poor Mary's gwon!—a longful time Zunz now!—er little scholard's prime A-mAc-be's past.—It must be zaw;— There's nothin stable here belaw! O' Mary—Acll left is—er crutch! An thaw a gift, an 'tword'n much 'Tis true, still I da like ta touch Tha cap o' Mary Ramsey's Crutch! That I lov'd Mary, this ool tell. I'll zAc na moor—zaw, fore well! [Footnote: Fare ye well.]



HANNAH VERRIOR.

Tha zAc I'm maz'd,—my Husband's dead, My chile, (hush! hush! Lord love er face!) Tha pit-hawl had at Milemas, when ThAc put me in theAze pooAt-hawl place.

ThAc zAc I'm maz'd.—I veel—I thenk—- I tAck—I ate, an oten drenk.— Tha thenk, a-mAc-be, zumtimes, peel— An gee me stra vor bed an peel!

ThAc zAc I'm maz'd.—Hush! Babby, dear! ThAc shan't come to er!—niver fear! ThAc zAc thy Father's dead!—Naw, naw! A'll niver die while I'm belaw.

ThAc zAc I'm maz'd.—Why dwont you speak? Fie James!—or else my hort ool break!— James is not dead! nor Babby!—naw! ThAc'll niver die while I'm belaw!



REMEMBRANCE.

An shall I drap tha Reed—an shall I, Athout one nawte about my SALLY? Althaw we Pawets Acll be zingers, We like, wi' enk, ta dye our vingers; Bit mooAst we like in vess ta pruv That we remimber those we love. Sim-like-it than, that I should iver Vorgit my SALLY.—Niver, niver! Vor, while I've wander'd in tha West— At mornin tide—at evenin rest— On Quantock's hills—in Mendip's vales— On Parret's banks—in zight o' Wales— In thic awld mansion whaur tha bAcll Once vrighten'd Lady Drake an Acll;— When wi' tha Ladies o' thic dell Whaur witches spird ther 'ticin spell— [Footnote: COMBE SYDENHAM, the residence of my Friend, GEORGE NOTLEY, Esq. The history of the Magic Ball, as it has been called, is now pretty generally known, and therefore need not be here repeated.] Amangst tha rocks on Watchet shaur When did tha wine an wActers raur— In Banwell's cave—on Loxton hill— At Clifton gAc—at Rickford rill— In Compton ood—in Hartree coom— At Crispin's cot wi' little room;— At Upton—Lansdown's lofty brow— At Bath, whaur pleasure flAcnts enow; At Trowbridge, whaur by Friendship's heed, I blaw'd again my silent Reed, An there enjay'd, wi' quiet, rest, Jitch recollections o' tha West; Whauriver stapp'd my voot along I thawt o' HER.—Here ends my zong.



DOCTOR COX; A BLANSCUE.

(First printed in the Graphic Illustrator.)

The catastrophe described in the following sketch, occurred near Highbridge, in Somersetshire, about the year 1779.—Mr. or Doctor Cox, as surgeons are usually called in the west, was the only medical resident at Huntspill, and in actual practice for many miles around that village. The conduct of Mr. Robert Evans, the friend and associate of Cox, can only be accounted for by one of those unfortunate infatuations to which the minds of some are sometimes liable. Had an immediate alarm been given when we children first discovered that Cox was missing, he might, probably, have been saved. The real cause of his death was, a too great abstraction of heat from the body; as the water was fresh and still, and of considerable depth, and, under the surface, much beneath the usual temperature of the human body. This fact ought to be a lesson to those who bathe in still and deep fresh water; and to warn them to continue only a short time in such a cold medium. [Footnote: Various efforts to restore the suspended animation of Cox, such as shaking him, rolling him on a cask, attempts to get out the water which it was then presumed had got into the stomach or the lungs, or both, in the drowning; strewing salt over the body, and many other equally ineffectual and improper methods to restore the circulation were, I believe, pursued. Instead of which, had the body been laid in a natural position, and the lost heat gradually administered, by the application of warm frictions, a warm bed, &c., how easily in all probability, would animation have been restored!]

The BRUE war bright, and deep and clear; [Footnote: The reader must not suppose that the river Brue, is generally a clear stream, or always rapid. I have elsewhere called it "lazy Brue." It is sometimes, at and above the floodgates at Highbridge, when they are not closed by the tide, a rapid stream; but through the moors, generally, its course is slow. In the summertime, and at the period to which allusion is made, the floodgates were closed.] And Lammas dAc and harras near: The zun upon the waters drode Girt sheets of light as on a rode; From zultry heAt the cattle hirn'd To shade or water as to firnd: Men, too, in yarly Acternoon Doft'd quick ther cloaths and dash'd in zoon To thic deep river, whaur the trout, In all ther prankin, plAcd about; And yels wi' zilver skins war zid, While gudgeons droo the wActer slid, Wi' carp sumtimes and wither fish Avoordon many a dainty dish. Whaur elvers too in spring time plAcd, [Footnote: Young eels are called elvers in Somersetshire. Walton, in his Angler, says, "Young eels, in the Severn, are called yelvers." In what part of the country through which the Severn passes they are called yelvers we are not told in Walton's book; as eels are called, in Somersetshere, yels, analogy seems to require yelvers for their young; but I never heard them so called. The elvers used to be obtained from the salt-water side of the bridge.] And pailvuls mid o' them be had. The wActer cold—the zunshine bright, To zwiminers than what high delight! 'Tis long agwon whun youth and I Wish'd creepin Time would rise and vly— A, half a hundred years an moor Zunz I a trod theAze earthly vloor! I zed, the face o' Brue war bright; Time smil'd too in thic zummer light. Wi' Hope bezide en promising A wordle o' fancies wild A' whing. I mine too than one lowering cloud That zim'd to wrop us like a shroud; The death het war o' Doctor Cox— To thenk o't now the storry shocks! Vor Acll the country vur and near Shod than vor'n many a horty tear. The Doctor like a duck could zwim; No fear o' drownin daver'd him! The pectur now I zim I zee! I wish I could liet's likeness gee! His Son, my brother John, myzel, Or Evans, mid the storry tell; But thAc be gwon and I, o' Acll O'm left to zAc what did bevAcll. Zo, nif zo be you like, why I To tell the storry now ool try.

Thic Evanshad a coward core And fear'd to venter vrom the shore; While to an vro, an vur an near, And now an tan did Cox appear In dalliance with the wActers bland, Or zwimmin wi' a maA"ster hand. We youngsters dree, the youngest I, To zee the zwimmers Acll stood by Upon the green bonk o' the Brue Jist whaur a stook let water droo: A quiet time of joyousness Zim'd vor a space thic dAc to bless! A dog' too, faithful to his maA"ster War there, and mang'd wi' the disaster— Vigo, ah well I mine his name! A Newvoun-lond and very tame! But Evans only war to blame: He AcllA"s paddled near the shore Wi' timid hon and coward core; While Doctor Cox div'd, zwim'd at ease Like fishes in the zummer seas; Or as the skaiters on the ice In winin circles wild and nice Yet in a moment he war gwon, The wonderment of ivry one: That is, we dree and Evans, Acll That zeed what Blanscue did bevAcll.— Athout one sign, or naise, or cry, Or shriek, or splash, or groan, or sigh! Could zitch a zwimmer ever die In wActer?—Yet we gaz'd in vain Upon thic bright and wActer plain: All smooth and calm—no ripple gave One token of the zwimmer's grave! We hir'd en not, we zeed en not!— The glassy wActer zim'd a blot? While Evans, he of coward core, Still paddled as he did bevore! At length our fears our silence broke,— Young as we war, and children Acll, We wish'd to goo an zum one cAcll; But Evans carelissly thus spoke— "Oh, Cox is up the river gone, Vor sartain ool be back anon;— He tAclk'd o' cyder, zed he'd g'up To Stole's an drenk a horty cup!" [Footnote: Mr. Stole resided near Newbridge, about a mile from the spot where the accident occurred; he was somewhat famous for his cyder.] Conjecture anty as the wine! And zoon did he het's faleshood vine.

John Cox took up his father's cloaths— Poor fellow! he beginn'd to cry! Than, Evans vrom the wActer rose; "A hunderd vawk'll come bimeby," A zed; whun, short way vrom the shore. We zeed, what zeed we not avore, The head of Doctor Cox appear— Het floated in the wActer clear! Bolt upright war he, and his hair, That pruv'd he sartainly war there, Zwimm'd on the wActer!—Evans than, The stupid'st of a stupid man, Call'd Vigo—pointed to that head— In Vigo dash'd—Cox was not dead! But seiz'd the dog's lag—helt en vast! One struggle, an het war the last! Ah! well do I remember it— That struggle I sholl ne'er forgit! Vigo was frightened and withdrew; The body zink'd at once vrom view.

Did Evans, gallid Evans then, CAcll out, at once, vor father's men? (ThAc war at work vor'n very near A mendin the old Highbridge pier,) A did'n cAcll, but 'mus'd our fear— "A hundred vawk ool zoon be here!" A zed.—We gid the hue and cry! And zoon a booAt wi' men did vly! But twar Acll auver! Cox war voun Not at the bottom lyin down, But up aneen, as jist avore We zeed en floatin nigh the shore.

But death 'ad done his wust—not Acll ThAc did could life's last spork recall. Zo Doctor Cox went out o' life A vine, a, and as honsom mon, As zun hath iver shin'd upon; A left a family—a wife, Two sons—onedater, As beautiful as lovely MAc, Of whom a-mAc-bi I mid za Zumthin hereActer: What thAc veel'd now I sholl not tell— My hort athin me 'gins to zwell! Reflection here mid try in vain, Wither particulars to gain, Evans zim'd all like one possest; Imagination! tell the rest!



L'ENVOY.

To Acll that sholl theeAze storry read, The Truth must vor it chiefly plead; I gee not here a tale o' ort, Nor snip-snap wit, nor lidden smort. But Aten, Aten by thie river, Have I a pass'd; yet niver, niver, Athout a thought o' Doctor Cox— His dog—his death—his floatin locks! The mooAst whun Brue war deep and clear, And Lammas dAc an harras near;— Whun zummer vleng'd his light abroad,— The zun in all his glory rawd; How beautiful mid be the dAc A zumthin AcllA"s zim'd to zAc, "Whar whing! the wActer's deep an' clear, But death mid be a lurkin near!"



A DEDICATION.

Thenk not, bin I ood be tha fashion, That I, ZIR, write theAze DedicAction; I write, I haup I dwon't offend. Bin I be proud ta cAcll You FRIEND. I here ston vooAth, alooAn unbidden To 'muse you wi' my country lidden;— Wi' remlet's o' tha Saxon tongue That to our Gramfers did belong. Vor Aill it is a little thing, Receave it—Friendship's offering— Ta pruv, if pruf I need renew, That I esteem not lightly YOU.



THE FAREWELL.

A longful time zunz I this vust begun! One little tootin moor and I a done. "One little tootin moor!—Enough, Vor once, we've had o' jitchy stuff; Thy lidden to a done 'tis time! Jitch words war niver zeed in rhyme!" Vorgee me vor'm.—Goo little Reed! Aforn tha vawk an vor me plead: Thy wild nawtes, mAc-be, thAc ool hire Zooner than zActer vrom a lyre. ZAc that, thy mAester's pleas'd ta blaw 'em, An haups in time thAc'll come ta knaw 'em; An nif zaw be thAc'll please ta hear A'll gee zum moor another year. Ive nothin else jist now ta tell: Goo, little Reed, an than forwel!



FARMER BENNET AN JAN LIDE,

A DIALOGUE.

Farmer Bennet.— Jan! why dwon't ye right my shoes?

Jan Lide.— Bin, maA"ster 'tis zaw cawld, I can't work wi' tha tacker at Acll; I've a brawk it ten times I'm shower ta dAc— da vreaze za hord. Why Hester hanged out a kittle-smock ta drowy, an in dree minits a war a vraur as stiff as a pawker; an I can't avoord ta keep a good vier—I wish I cood—I'd zoon right your shoes and withers too—I'd zoon yarn [Footnote: Earn.] zum money, I warnt ye. Can't ye vine zum work vor me, maester, theAze hord times—I'll do any theng ta sar a penny.—I can drash—I can cleave brans—I can make spars—I can thatchy—I can shear ditch, an I can gripy too, bit da vreaze za hord. I can wimmy—I can messy or milky nif ther be need o't. I ood'n mine dreavin plough or any theng.

Farmer Bennet.— I've a got nothing vor ye ta do, Jan; bit Mister Boord banchond ta I jist now that thAc war gwain ta wimmy, ond that thAc wanted zumbody ta help 'em.

Jan Lide.—Aw, I'm glad o't, I'll him auver an zee where I can't help 'em; bit I han't a bin athin tha drashel o' Maester Boord's door vor a longful time, bin I thawt that missis did'n use Hester well; but I dwon't bear malice, an zaw I'll goo.

Farmer Bennet.—What did Missis Boord zAc or do ta Hester, than?

Jan Lide.—Why, Hester, a mAc-be, war zummet ta blame too: vor she war one o'm, d'ye zee, that rawd Skimmerton—thic mAc game that frunted zum o' tha gennel-vawk. ThAc zed 'twar time to a done wi'jitch litter, or jitch stuff, or I dwon knaw what thAc call'd it; bit thAc war a frunted wi' Hester about it: an I zed nif thAc war a frunted wi' Hester, thAc mid be frunted wi' I. This zet missis's back up, an Hester han't a bin a choorin there zunz. Bit 'tis niver-the-near ta bear malice; and zaw I'll goo auver an zee which wAc tha wine da blaw.



THOMAS CAME AN YOUNG MAESTER JIMMY.

Thomas Came.—Aw, Maester Jimmy! zaw you be a come whim vrom school. I thawt we shood niver zeenamoor. We've a mist ye iver zunz thic time, when we war at zea-wall, an cut aup tha girt porpus wi' za many zalmon in hiz belly—zum o'm look'd vit ta eat as thaw tha wor a bwiled, did'n thAc?—

Jimmy.—Aw eese, Thomas; I da mine tha porpus; an I da mine tha udder, an tha milk o'n, too. I be a come whim, Thomas, an I dwon't thenk I shall goo ta school again theAze zumrner. I shall be out amangst ye. I'll goo wi' ta mawy, an ta hAc-makin, an ta reapy—I'll come Acter, an zet up tha stitches vor ye, Thomas. An if I da stAc till Milemas, I'll goo ta Matthews fayer wi'. Thomas, Acve ye had any zenvy theAze year?—I zeed a gir'd'l o't amangst tha wheat as I rawd along. Ave you bin down in ham, Thomas, o' late—is thic groun, tha ten yacres, haind vor mawin?

Thomas Came.—Aw, Maester Jimmy! I da love ta hire you tAck- -da zeem za naatal. We a had zum zenvy—an tha ten yacres be a haind—a'll be maw'd in veo dAcs—you'll come an hAc-maky, o'nt ye?- -eese, I knaw you ool—an I da knaw whool goo a hAc-makin wi', too —ah, she's a zweet maid—I dwon't wonder at ye at Acll, Maester Jimmy—Lord bless ye, an love ye booAth.

Jimmy.—Thomas, you a liv'd a long time wi' Father, an' I dwont like ta chide ye, bit nif you da tAck o' Miss Cox in thic fashion, I knaw she on't like it, naw moor sholl I. Miss Cox, Thomas, Miss Cox ool, a-mAc-be, goo a hAc-makin wi' I, as she a done avaur now; bit Sally, Miss Cox, Thomas, I wish you'd zAc naw moor about er.—There now, Thomas, dwon't ye zee—why shee's by tha gate-shord! I haup she han't a hird what we a bin a tAckin about.— Be tha thissles skeer'd in tha twenty yacres, Thomas?—aw, thAc be. Well, I sholl be glad when tha ten yacres be a mawed—an when we da make an end o' hAc-corrin, I'll dance wi' Sally Cox.

Thomas Came.—There, Maester Jimmy! 'tword'n I that tAck'd o' Sally Cox!



MARY RAMSEY,

_A MONOLOGUE,

To er Scholards_.

Commether [Footnote: Come hither.] Billy Chubb, an breng tha hornen book. Gee me tha vester in tha windor, you Pal Came!—what! be a sleepid—I'll wAcke ye. Now, Billy there's a good bway! Ston still there, an mine what I da zAc to ye, an whaur I da pwint.—Now;—cris-cross, [Footnote: The cris, in this compound, and in cris-cross-lain, is very often, indeed most commonly, pronounced Kirs.] girt Ac little Ac—b—c—d.—That's right Billy; you'll zoon lorn tha cris-cross-lain—you'll zoon auvergit Bobby Jiffry—you'll zoon be a scholard.—A's a pirty chubby bway—Lord love'n!

Now, Pal Came! you come an vessy wi' yer zister. —There! tha forrels o' tha book be a brawk; why dwon't ye take moor care o'm?—Now, read;—Het Came! why d'ye drean zaw?—hum, hum, hum;—you da make a naise like a spinnin turn, or a dumbledore—Acll in one lidden—hum, hum, hum,—You'll niver lorn ta read well thic fashion.—Here, Pal, read theAze vesses vor yer zister. There now, Het, you mine how yerzister da read, not hum, hum, hum.—Eese you ool, ool ye?—I tell ye, you must, or I'll rub zum rue auver yer hons:—what d'ye thenk o't!—There, be gwon you Het, an dwon't ye come anuost yer zister ta vessy wi' er till you a got yer lessin moor parfit, or I'll gee zummet you on't ax me vor. Pally, you tell yer Gramfer Palmer that I da zAc Hetty Came shood lorn ta knitty; an a shood buy zum knittin nills and wusterd vor er; an a shood git er zum nills and dird, vor er to lorn to zawy too.

Now Miss Whitin, tha dunces be a gwon, let I hire how pirty you can read.—I Aclways zed that PAcson Tuttle's grandActer ood lorn er book well.—Now, Miss, what ha ye a got there? Valentine an Orson.—A pirty storry, bit I be afeard there's naw moril to it.—What be Acll tha tuthermy books you a got by yer goodhussey there in tha basket? Gee's-zee-'em,[Footnote: Let me see them. This is a singular expression, and is thus to be analysed; Give us to see them.] nif you please, Miss Polly.—Tha Zeven Champions—Goody Two Shoes—Pawems vor Infant minds.—TheAzamy here be by vur tha best.—There is a moril ta mooAst o'm; an thAc be pirty bezides.—Now, Miss, please ta read thic— Tha Notorious Glutton.—Pal Came! turn tha glass! dwon't ye zee tha zond is Acll hirnd out;—you'll stAc in school tha longer for't nif you dwon't mine it.—Now, Acll o' ye be quiet ta hire Miss Whitin read.—There now! what d'ye zAc ta jitch radin as that?—There, d'ye hire, Het Came! she dwon't drean—hum, hum, hum.—I shood like ta hire er vessy wi' zum o' ye; bit your bad radin ood spwile her good.

OUT O' BOOKS!

All the childern goo voAth.



SOLILOQUY OF BEN BOND,

THE IDLETON.

(First printed in the Graphic Illustrator.)

Ben Bond was one of those sons of Idleness whom ignorance and want of occupation in a secluded country village too often produce. He was a comely lad, aged sixteen, employed by Farmer Tidball, a querulous and suspicious old man, tto look after a large flock o sheep.—The scene of his Soliloquy may be thus described.

A green sunny bank, on which the body may agreeably repose, called the Sea Wall; on the sea side was an extensive common called the Wath, and adjoining to it was another called the Island, both were occasionally overflowed by the tide. On the other side of the bank were rich enclosed pastures, suitable for fattening the finest cattle. Into these inclosures many of Ben Bond's charge were frequently disposed to stray. The season was June, the time mid-day, and the western breezes came over the sea, a short distance from which our scene lay, at once cool, grateful, refreshing, and playful. The rushing Parret, with its ever shifting sands, was also heard in the distance. It should be stated, too, that Larence is the name usually given in Somersetshire to that imaginary being which presides over the IDLE. Perhaps it may also be useful to state here that the word Idlelon is more than a provincialism, and should be in our dictionaries.

During the latter part of the Soliloquy Farmer Tidball arrives behind the bank, and hearing poor Ben's discourse with himself, interrupts his musings in the manner described hereafter. It is the history of an occurrence in real life, and at the place mentioned. The writer knew Farmer Tidball personally, and has often heard the story from his wife.



SOLILOQUY

"Larence! why doos'n let I up? Oot let I up?" Naw, I be sleapid, I can't let thee up eet.—"Now, Lareuce! do let I up. There! bimeby maester'll come, an a'll beAt I athin a ninch o' me life; do let I up!"—Naw I wunt.

"Larence! I bag o'ee, do ee let I, up! D'ye zee! Tha shee-ape be Acll a breakin droo tha hadge inta tha vivean-twenty yacres; an Former Haggit'll goo ta LAc wi'n, an I sholl be kill'd. —Naw I wun't— 'tis zaw whot: bezides I hant a had my nap out. "Larence! I da zAc, thee bist a bad un! Oot thee hire what I da zAc? Come now an let I scooce wi'. Lord a massy upon me! Larence, whys'n thee let I up?" CAcz I wunt. What! muss'n I hAc an hour like wither vawk ta ate my bird an cheese? I do zAc I wunt; and zaw 'tis niver-tha-near to keep on.

"Maester tawl'd I, nif I wer a good bway, a'd gee I iz awld wasket; an I'm shower, nif a da come an vine I here, an tha shee-ape a brawk inta tha vive-an-twenty yacres, a'll vleng't awAc vust! Larence, do ee, do ee let I up! Ool ee, do ee!"—Naw, I tell ee I wunt.

"There's one o' tha sheep 'pon iz back in tha gripe, an a can't turn auver! I mis g'in ta tha groun an g'out to'n, an git'n out. There's another in tha ditch! a'll be a buddled! There's a gird'l o' trouble wi' shee-ape! Larence; cass'n thee let I goo. I'll gee thee a hAc peny nif oot let me."—Naw I can't let thee goo eet.

"Maester'll be shower to come an catch me! Larence! doose thee hire? I da zAc, oot let me up. I zeed Farmer Haggit zoon Acter I upt, an a zed, nif a voun one o' my shee-ape in tha vive-an-twenty yacres, a'd drash I za long as a cood ston auver me, an wi' a groun ash' too! There! Zum o'm be a gwon droo tha vive-an-twenty yacres inta tha drauve: thAc'll zoon hirn vur anow. ThAc'll be poun'd. Larence! I'll gee thee a penny nif oot let I up." Naw I wunt.

"Thic not sheep ha got tha shab! Dame tawl'd I whun I upt ta-da ta mine tha shab-wActer; I sholl pick it in whun I da goo whim. I vorgot it! Maester war desperd cross, an I war glad ta git out o' tha langth o' iz tongue. I da hate zitch cross vawk! Larence! what, oot niver let I up? There! zum o' tha shee-ape be gwon into Leek- beds; an zum o'm be in Hounlake; dree or vour o'm be gwon zAc vur as Slow-wAc; the ditches be, menny o'm zAc dry 'tis all now rangel common! There! I'll gee thee dree hAc pence ta let I goo." Why, thee hass'n bin here an hour, an vor what shood I let thee goo? I da zAc, lie still!

"Larence! why doos'n let I up? There! zim ta I, I da hire thic pirty maid, Fanny o' Primmer Hill, a chidin bin I be a lyin here while tha shee-ape be gwain droo thic shord an tuther shord; zum o'm, a-mAc-be, be a drown'd! Larence; doose thee thenk I can bear tha betwitten o' thic pirty maid? She, tha Primrawse o' Primmer-hill; tha Lily o' tha level; tha gawl-cup o' tha mead; tha zweetist honeyzuckle in tha garden; tha yarly vilet; tha rawse o' rawses; tha pirty pollyantice! Whun I seed er last, she zed, "Ben, do ee mind tha sheeape, an tha yeos an lams, an than zumbody ool mine you." Wi'that she gid me a beautiful spreg o' jessamy, jist a pickt vrom tha poorch,—tha smill war za zweet.

"Larence! I mus goo! I ool goo. You mus let I up. I ont stAc here na longer! Maester'll be shower ta come an drash me. There, Larence! I'll gee tuther penny, an that's ivry vard'n I a got. Oot let I goo?" Naw, I mis ha a penny moor.

"Larence! do let I up! Creeplin Philip'll be shower ta catch me! Thic cockygee! I dwont like en. at Acll; a's za rough, an za zoA1r. An _Will Popham_ too, ta betwite me about tha maid: a cAcll'd er a ratheripe _Lady-buddick_. I dwont mislike tha name at Acll, thawf I dwont care vor'n a stra, nor a read mooAte; nor thatite o' a pin! What da thAc cAcll _he_? Why, tha _upright man_, cAcs a da ston upright; let'n; an let'n wrassly too: I dwont like zitch _hoss-plAcs_, nor _singel-stick_ nuther; nor _cock- squailin'; nor menny wither mAc-games that Will Popham da volly. I'd rather zitin tha poorch, wi' tha jessamy ranglin roun it, and hire Fanny zeng. Oot let I up, Larence?"—_Naw, I tell ee I ont athout a penny moor._

"Rawzey Pink, too, an Nanny Dubby axed I about Fanny. What bisniss ad thAc ta up wi't? I dwont like norn'om? Girnin Jan too shawed iz teeth an put in his verdi.—I—wish theeAze vawk ood mine ther awn consarns an let I an Fanny alooAne.

"Larence! doose thee meAn to let I goo?"—_Eese, nif thee't gee me tuther penny_.—"Why I han't a got a vard'n moor; oot let I up!"- -_Not athout tha penny.—"Now Larence! doo ee, bin I liant naw moor money. I a bin here moor than an hoA1r; whaur tha yeos an lams an Acll tha tuthermy sheep be now I dwon' know.—_Creeplin Philip_[Footnote: Even remote districts in the country have their satirists, and would-be-wits; and Huntspill, the place alluded to in the Soliloquy, was, about half a century ago, much pestered with them. Scarcely a person of any note escaped a pariah libel, and even servants were not excepted. For instance:—_Creeplin Philip_, (that is "creeplin," because he walked lamely,) was Farmer Tidball himself; and his servant, William Popham, was the _upright man_. _Girnin Jan_ is Grinning John.] ool gee me a lirropin shower anow! There!—I da thenk I hired zummet or zumbody auver tha wAcll."—

"Here, d—n thee! I'll gee tha tuther penny, an zummet besides!" exclaimed Farmer Tidball, leaping down the bank, with a stout sliver of a crab-tree in his hand.—The sequel may be easily imagined.

Nanny Dubby, Sally Clink, Long Josias an Raway Pink, —Girnin Jan, Creeplin Philip and the upright man.



TWO DISSERTATIONS ON SOME OF THE ANGLO-SAXON PRONOUNS.

BY JAMES JENKINGS.

(From the Graphic Illustrator.)

No. 1.—I, IC, ICH, ICHE, UTCHY, ISE, C', CH', CHE, CH'AM, CH'UD, CH'LL.

Until recently few writers on the English Language, have devoted much attention to the origin of our first personal pronoun I, concluding perhaps that it would be sufficient to state that it is derived from the Anglo-Saxon ic. No pains seem to have been taken to explain the connexion which ic, ich, and iche have with Ise, c', ch', che', and their combinations in such words as ch'am, ch'ud, ch'ill, &c. Hence we have been led to believe that such contractions are the vulgar corruptions of an ignorant and, consequently, unlettered people. That the great portion of the early Anglo-Saxons were an unlettered people, and that the rural population were particularly unlettered, and hence for the most part ignorant, we may readily admit; and even at the present time, many districts in the west will be found pretty amply besprinkled with that unlettered ignorance for which many of our forefathers were distinguished. But an enquiry into the origin and use of our provincial words will prove, that even our unlettered population have been guided by certain rules in their use of an energetic language. Hence it will be seen on inquiry that many of the words supposed to be vulgarisms, and vulgar and capricious contractions are no more so than many of our own words in daily use; as to the Anglo-Saxon contractions of ch'am, ch'ud, and ch'ill, they will be found equally consistent with our own common contractions of can't, won't, he'll, you'll, &c., &c. in our present polished dialect.

Whether, however, our western dialects will be more dignified by an Anglo-Saxon pedigree I do not know; those who delight in tracing descents through a long line of ancestors up to one primitive original ought to be pleased with the literary genealogist, who demonstrates that many of our provincial words and contractions have an origin more remote, and in their estimation of course, must be more legitimate than a mere slip from the parent stock, as our personal pronoun, I, unquestionably is.

As to the term "barbarous," Mr. Horace Smith, the author of "Walter Colyton," assures me that many of his friends call what he has introduced of the Somerset Dialect in Walter Colyton, "barbarous."—Now, I should like to learn in what its barbarity consists. The plain truth after all is, that those who are unwilling to take the trouble to understand any language, or any dialect of any language, with which they are previously unacquainted, generally consider such new language or such dialect barbarous; and to them it doubtless appears so. What induces our metropolitan literati, those at least who are, or affect to be the arbitri elegantiarum among them, to consider the Scotch dialect in another light? Simply because such able writers, as Allan Ramsay, Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott, and others, have chosen to employ it for the expression of their thoughts. Let similar able writers employ our Western Dialect in a similar way, and I doubt not the result. And why should not our Western dialects be so employed? If novelty and amusement, to say the least for such writings, be advantageous to our literature, surely novelty and amusement might be conveyed in the dialect of the West as well as of the North. Besides these advantages, it cannot be improper to observe that occasional visits to the well-heads of our language, (and many of these will be found in the West of England) will add to the perfection of our polished idiom itself. The West may be considered the last strong hold of the Anglo-Saxon in this country.

I observed, in very early life, that some of my father's servants, who were natives of the Southern parts of the county of Somerset, almost invariably employed the word utchy for I. Subsequent reflection convinced me that this word, utchy, was the Anglo-Saxon iche, used as a dissyllable ichA", as the Westphalians, (descendants of the Anglo- Saxons,) down to this day in their Low German (Westphalian) dialect say, "Ikke" for "ich." How or when this change in the pronunciation of the word, from one to two syllables, took place in in this country it is difficult to determine; but on reference to the works of Chaucer, there is, I think, reason to conclude that iche is used sometimes in that poet's works as a dissyllable.

Having discovered that utchy was the Anglo-Saxon iche, there was no difficulty in appropriating 'che, 'c', and ch' to the same root; hence, as far as concerned iche in its literal sounds, a good deal seemed unravelled; but how could we account for ise, and ees, used so commonly for I in the western parts of Somersetshire, as well as in Devonshire? In the first folio edition of tlie works of Shakspeare the ch is printed, in one instance, with a mark of elision before it thus, 'ch, a proof that the I in iche was sometimes dropped in a common and rapid pronunciation; and a proof too, that, we, the descendants of the Anglo-Saxons, have chosen the initial letter only of that pronoun, which initial letter the Anglo-Saxons had in very many instances discarded!

It is singular enough that Shakspeare has the 'ch for iche, I, and ise, for I, within the distance of a few lines, in King Lear, Act IV. scene 6. But perhaps not more singular than that, in Somersetshire at the present time, may be heard for the pronoun I, utchy or ichA", 'ch, and ise. To the absence originally of general literary information, and to the very recent rise of the study of grammatical analysis, are these anomalies and irregularities to be attributed.

We see, therefore, that 'ch'ud, ch'am, and 'ch'ill, are simply the Anglo-Saxon ich, contracted and combined with the respective verbs would, am, and will; that the 'c' and 'ch', as quoted in the lines given by Miss Ham, are contracts for the Anglo-Saxon iche or I, and nothing else. It may be also observed, that in more than one modern work containing specimens of the dialect of Scotland and the North of England, and in, I believe, some of Sir Walter Scott's novels, the word ise is employed, so that the auxiliary verb will or shall is designed to be included in that word; and the printing or it thus, I'se, indicates that it is so designed to be employed. Now, if this be a copy of the living dialect of Scotland (which I beg leave respectfully to doubt), it is a "barbarism" which the Somerset dialect does not possess. The ise in the west is simply a pronoun and nothing else; it is, however, often accompanied by a contracted verb, as ise'll for I will.

In concluding these observations on the first personal pronoun it may be added, that the object of the writer has been to state facts, without the accompaniment of that learning which is by some persons deemed so essential in inquiries of this kind. The best learning is that which conveys to us a knowledge of facts. Should any one be disposed to convince himself of the correctness of the data here laid before him, by researches among our old authors, as well as from living in the west, there is no doubt as to the result to which lie must come. Perhaps, however, it may be useful to quote one or two specimens of our more early Anglo- Saxon, to prove their analogy to the present dialect in Somersetshire.

The first specimen is from Robert of Gloucester, who lived in the time of Henry II., that is, towards the latter end of the twelfth century; it is quoted by Drayton, in the notes to his Pulyolbion, song xvii.

"The meste wo that here vel bi King Henry's days, In this lond, icholle beginne to tell yuf ich may."

Vel, for fell, the preterite of to fall, is precisely the sound given to the same word at the present time in Somersetshire. We see that icholle, for I shall, follows the same rule as the contracts 'ch'ud, 'ch'am, and 'ch'ill. It is very remarkable that sholl, for shall, is almost invariably employed in Somersetshire, at the present time. Yuf I am disposed to consider a corruption or mistake for gyf (give), that is, if, the meaning and origin of which have been long ago settled by Horne Tooke in his Purley.

The next specimen is assuredly of a much more modern date; though quoted by Mr Dibdin, in his Metrical History of England, as from an old ballad.

"Ch'ill tell thee what, good fellow, Before the vriars went hence, A bushel of the best wheate Was zold for vourteen pence, And vorty egges a penny, That were both good and new, And this che say myself have seene, And yet I am no Jew."

With a very few alterations, indeed, these lines would become the South Somerset of the present day.

No. II.—ER, EN, A—IT HET—THEEAZE, THEEAZAM, THIZZAM—THIC, THILK—TWORDM—WORDN—ZINO.

There are in Somersetshire (besides that particular, portion in the southern parts of the country in which the Anglo-Saxon iche or utchy and its contracts prevail) two distinct and very different dialects, the boundaries of which are strongly marked by the River Parret. To the east and north of that river, and of the town of Bridgewater, a dialect is used which is essentially, (even now) the dialect of all the peasantry of not only that part of Somersetshire, but of Dorsetshire, Wiltshire, Gloucestershire, Hampshire, Surrey, Sussex, and Kent; and even in the suburban village of Lewisham, will be found many striking remains of it. There can be no doubt that this dialect was some centuries ago the language of the inhabitants of all the south and of much of the west portion of our island; but it is in its greatest purity[Footnote: Among other innumerable proofs that Somersetshire is one of the strongholds of our old Anglo-Saxon, are the sounds which are there generally given to the vowels A and E. A has, for the most part, the same sound as we give to that letter in the word father in our polished dialect: in the words tAcll, cAcll, bAcll, and vAcll (fall), &c., it is thus pronounced. The E has the sound which we give in our polished dialect to the a in pane, cane, &c., both which sounds, it may be observed, are even now given to these letters on the Continent, in very many places, particularly in Holland and in Germany. The name of Dr. Gall, the founder of the science of phrenology, is pronounced GAcll, as we of the west pronounce tAcll, bAcll, &c.] and most abundant in the county of Somerset. No sooner, however, do we cross the Parret and proceed from Combwich [Footnote: Pronounced Cummidge. We here see the disposition in our language to convert wich into idge; as Dulwich and Greenwich often pronounced by the vulgar Dullidge, Greenidge.] to Cannington (three miles from Bridgewater) than another dialect becomes strikingly apparent. Here we have no more of the zees, the hires, the veels, and the walks, and a numerous et cA tera, which we find in the eastern portion of the county, in the third person singular of the verbs, but instead we have he zeeth, he sees, he veel'th, he feels, he walk'th, he walks, and so on through the whole range of the similar part of every verb. This is of itself a strong and distinguishing characteristic; but this dialect has many more; one is the very different sounds given to almost every word which is employed, and which thus strongly characterize the persons who use them. [Footnote: I cannot pretend to account for this very singular and marked distinction in our western dialects; the fact, however, is so; and it may be added, too, that there can be no doubt both these dialects are the children of our Anglo-Saxon parent.]

Another is that er for he in the nominative case is most commonly employed; thus for, he said he would not, is used Er zad er ood'n—Er ont goor, for, he will not go, &c.

Again ise or ees, for I is also common. Many other peculiarities and contractions in this dialect are to a stranger not a little puzzling; and if we proceed so far westward as the confines of Exmoor, they are, to a plain Englishman, very often unintelligible. Her or rather hare is most always used instead of the nominative she. Har'th a dood it, she has done it; Hare zad har'd do't. She said she would do it. This dialect pervades, not only the western portion of Somersetshire, but the whole of Devonshire. As my observations in these papers apply chiefly to the dialect east of the Parret, it is not necessary to proceed further in our present course; yet as er is also occasionally used instead of he in that dialect it becomes useful to point out its different application in the two portions of the county. In the eastern part it is used very rarely if ever in the beginning of sentences; but frequently thus: A did, did er? He did, did he? Wordn er gwain? Was he not going? Ool er goo? will he go?

We may here advert to the common corruption, I suppose I must call it, of a for he used so generally in the west. As a zed a'd do it for, lie said he would do it. Shakespeare has given this form of the pronoun in the speeches of many of his low characters which, of course, strikingly demonstrates its then very general use among the vulgar; but it is in his works usually printed with a comma thus 'a, to show, probably that it is a corrupt enunciation of he. This comma is, however, very likely an addition by some editor.

Another form of the third personal pronoun employed only in the objective case is found in the west, namely en for him, as a zid en or, rather more commonly, a zid'n, he saw him. Many cases however, occur in which en is fully heard; as gee't to en, give it to him. It is remarkable that Congreve, in his comedy of "Love for Love" has given to Ben the Sailor in that piece many expressions found in the west. "Thof he be my father I an't bound prentice to en." It should be noted here that he be is rarely if ever heard in the west, but he's or he is. We be, you be, and thAc be are nevertheless very common. Er, employed as above, is beyond question aboriginal Saxon; en has been probably adopted as being more euphonious than him. [Footnote: I have not met with en for him in any of our more early writers; and I am therefore disposed to consider it as of comparatively modern introduction, and one among the very few changes in language introduced by the yeomanry, a class of persons less disposed to changes of any kind than any other in society, arising, doubtless, from their isolated position. It must be admitted, nevertheless, that this change if occasionally adopted in our polished dialect would afford an agreeable variety by no means unmusical. In conversation with a very learned Grecian on this subject, he seemed to consider because the learned are constantly, and sometimes very capriciously, introducing new words into our language, that such words as en might be introduced for similar reasons, namely, mere fancy or caprice; on this subject I greatly differ from him: our aboriginal Saxon population has never corrupted our language nor destroyed its energetic character half so much as the mere classical scholar. Hence the necessity, in order to a complete knowledge of our mother tongue, that we should study the Anglo-Saxon still found in the provinces.

Het for it is still also common amongst the peasantry. In early Saxon writers, it was usually written hit, sometimes hyt.

"Als hit in heaven y-doe, Evar in yearth beene it also." Metrical Lord's Prayer of 1160.

Of theeAze, used as a demonstrative pronoun, both in the singular and plural, for this and these, it maybe observed, as well as of the pronunciation of many other words in the west, that we have no letters or combination of letters which, express exactly the sounds there given to such words. TheeAze is here marked as a dissyllable, but although it is sometimes decidedly two syllables, its sounds are not always thus apparent in Somerset enunciation. What is more remarkable in this world, is its equal application to the singular and the plural. Thus we say theeAze man and theAze men. But in the plural are also employed other forms of the same pronoun, namely theeAzam, theeAzamy and thizzum. This last word is, of course, decidedly the Anglo-Saxon A issum. In the west we say therefore theeAzam here, theeAzamy here, and thizzam here for these, or these here; and sometimes without the pleonastic and unnecessary here.

For the demonstrative those of our polished dialect them, or themmy, and often them there or themmy there are the usual synonyms; as, gee I themmy there shoes; that is, give me those shoes. The objective pronoun me, is very sparingly employed indeed—I, in general supplying its place as in the preceding sentence: to this barbarism in the name of my native dialect, I must plead guilty!— if barbarism our metropolitan critics shall be pleased to term it. [Footnote: By the way I must just retort upon our polished dialect, that it has gone over to the other extreme in avoidance of the I, using me in many sentences where I ought most decidedly to be employed. It was me [Footnote: I am aware that some of our lexicographers have attempted a defence of this solecism by deriving it from the French c'est moi; but, I think it is from their affected dislike of direct egotism; and that, whenever they can, they avoid the I in order that they might not be thought at once vulgar and egotistic!] is constantly dinned in our ears for it was I: as well as indeed one word more, although not a pronoun, this is, the almost constant use in London of the verb to lay for the verb to lie, and ketch for catch. If we at head-quarters commit such blunders can we wonder at our provincial detachments falling into similar errors? none certainly more gross than this!]

Thic is in the Somersetshire dialect (namely that to which I have particularly directed my attention and which prevails on the east side of the Parret) invariably employed for that. Thic house, that house; thic man, that man: in the west of the county it is thiky, or thecky. Sometimes thic has the force and meaning of a personal pronoun, as:

Catch and scrabble Thic that's yable:— Catch and scramble He who's able.

Again, thic that dont like it mid leave it,—he who does not like it may leave it. It should be noted that th in all the pronouns above mentioned has the obtuse sound as heard in then and this and not the thin sound as heard in both, thin, and many other words of our polished dialect. Chaucer employed the pronoun thic very often, but he spells it thilk; he does not appear, however, to have always restricted it to the meaning implied in our that and to the present Somerset thic. Spenser has also employed thilk in his Shepherd's Calendar several times.

"Seest not thilk same hawthorn stud How bragly it begins to bud And utter his tender head?" "Our blonket leveries been all too sad For thilk same season, when all is yclad With pleasance."

I cannot conclude without a few observations on three very remarkable Somersetshire words, namely twordn, wordn, and zino. They are living evidences of the contractions with which that dialect very much abounds.

Twordn means it was not; and is composed of three words, namely it, wor, and not; wor is the past tense, or, as it is sometimes called, the preterite of the verb to be, in the third person singular; [Footnote: It should be observed here that was is rather uncommon among the Somersetshire peasantry—wor, or war, being there the synonyms; thus Spenser in his 'Shepherd's Calendar.'"

"The kid,— Asked the cause of his great distress, And also who and whence that he wer You say he was there, and I say that a wordn; You say that 'twas he, and I tell you that twordn; You ask, will he go? I reply, not as I know; You say that he will, and Imust say, no, Zino!]

and such is the indistinctness with which the sound of the vowel in were is commonly expressed in Somersetshire, that wor, wer, or war, will nearly alike convey it, the sound of the e being rarely if ever long; twordn is therefore composed, as stated, of three words; but it will be asked what business has the d in it? To this it may be replied that d and t are, as is well known, often converted in our language the one into the other; but by far the most frequently d is converted into t. Here, however, the t is not only converted into d, but instead of being placed after n, as analogy requires thus, twornt, it is placed before it for euphony I dare say. Such is the analysis of this singular and, if not euphonious, most certainly expressive word.

Wordn admits of a similar explanation; but this word is composed of two words only, war and not; instead of wornt, which analogy requires, a d is placed before n for a similar reason that the d is placed before n in twordn, namely for euphony; wordn is decidedly another of the forcible words.

Wordn fir gwain?—was he not going, may compete with any language for its energetic brevity.

Zino, has the force and application of an interjection, and has sufficient of the ore rotundo to appear a classical dissyllable; its origin is, however, simply the contract of, as I know, and it is usually preceeded in Somersetshire by no. Thus, ool er do it? no, zino! I thawt a oodn. Will he do it? no, as I know! I thought he would not. These words, Twordn, Wordn, and Zino, may be thus exemplified:

THE END