Dorset Delight

My love is the maïd ov all maïdens,
  Though all mid be comely,
Her skin's lik' the jessamy blossom
  A-spread in the Spring.

Her smile is so sweet as a beäby's
  Young smile on his mother,
Her eyes be as bright as the dew drop
  A-shed in the Spring.

O grey-leafy pinks o' the geärden,
  Now bear her sweet blossoms;
Now deck wi' a rwose-bud, O briar,
  Her head in the Spring.

O light-rollèn wind blow me hither,
  The vaïce ov her talkèn,
Or bring vrom her veet the light doust,
  She do tread in the Spring.

O zun, meäke the gil'cups all glitter,
  In goold all around her;
An' meäke o' the deäisys' white flowers
  A bed in the Spring.

O whissle gäy birds, up bezide her,
  In drong-way, an' woodlands,
O zing, swingèn lark, now the clouds,
  Be a-vled in the Spring.

An' who, you mid ax, be my praïses
  A-meäken so much o',
An' oh! 'tis the maïd I'm a-hopèn
  To wed in the Spring.

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Since I noo mwore do zee your feäce,
  Up steäirs or down below,
I'll zit me in the lwonesome pleäce,
  Where flat bough'd beech do grow:
Below the beeches' bough, my love, 
  Where you did never come,
An' I don't look to meet ye now,
  As I do look at hwome.

Since you noo mwore be at my zide,
  In walks in zummer het,
I'll goo alwone where mist do ride,
  Drough trees a-drippèn wet:
Below the raïn-wet bough, my love,
  Where you did never come,
An' I don't grieve to miss ye now,
  As I do grieve at home.

Since now bezide my dinner-bwoard
  Your vaïce do never sound,
I'll eat the bit I can avword,
  A-vield upon the ground;
Below the darksome bough, my love,
  Where you did never dine,
An' I don't grieve to miss ye now,
  As I at hwome do pine.

Since I do miss your vaïce an' feäce
  In prayer at eventide,
I'll pray wi' woone said vaïce vor greäce
  To goo where you do bide;
Above the tree an' bough, my love,
  Where you be gone avore,
An' be a-waïtèn vor me now,
  To come vor evermwore.

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No, no! I ben't a-runnèn down 
The pretty maïden's o' the town,
  Nor wishèn o'm noo harm;
But she that I would marry vu'st,
To sheäre my good luck or my crust,
  'S a-bred up at a farm.
In town, a maïd do zee mwore life,
  An' I don't under-reäte her; 
But ten to woone the sprackest wife
  'S a farmer's woldest dā'ter.

Vor she do veed, wi' tender ceäre,
The little woones, an' peärt their heäir,
  An' keep em neat an' pirty;
An' keep the saucy little chaps
O' bwoys in trim wi' dreats an' slaps,
  When they be wild an' dirty.
Zoo if you'd have a bus'lèn wife,
  An' childern well look'd after,
The maïd to help ye all drough life
  'S a farmer's woldest dā'ter.

An' she can iorn up an'vwold
A book o' clothes wi' young or wold,
  An' zalt an' roll the butter;
An' meäke brown bread, an' elder wine,
An' zalt down meat in pans o' brine,
  An' do what you can put her.
Zoo if you've wherewi', an' would vind 
  A wife wo'th lookèn aā'ter, 
Goo an' get a farmer in the mind
  To gi'e ye his woldest dā'ter.

Her heart's so innocent an' kind.
She idden thoughtless, but do mind
  Her mother an' her duty;
An' livèn blushes, that do spread
Upon her healthy feäce o' red,
  Do heighten all her beauty;
So quick's a bird, so neat's a cat,
  So cheerful in her neätur,
The best o' maïdens to come at
  'S a farmer's woldest dā'ter.