In Praise Of Dorset

A poem by William Barnes

We Do’set, though we mid be hwomely,
Be’nt asheamed to own our pleace;
An’ we’ve zome women not uncomely;
Nor asheamed to show their feace;
We’ve a mead or two wo’th mowen,
We’ve a ox or two wo’th showen,
In the village,
At the tillage.
Come along an’ you shall vind
That Do’set men don’t sheame their kind.
Friend an’ wife,
Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers,
Happy, happy, be their life!
Vor Do’set dear,
Then gi’e woone cheer;
D’ye hear? woone cheer!
If you in Do’set be a roamen,
An’ ha’ business on a farm,
Then woont ye zee your eale a foamen!
Or your cider down to warm?
Woont yo have brown bread a-put ye,
An’ some vinney cheese a-cut ye?
Butter?—Rolls o’t!
Cream?—why bowls o’t!
Woont ye have, in short, your vill,
A-gi’ed wi’ a right good will? Friend an’ wife,
Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers,
Happy, happy, be their life!
Vor Do’set dear,
Then gi’e woone cheer;
D’ye hear? woone cheer!

An woon’t yo have vor ev’ry shillen,
Shillen’s wo’th at any shop.
Though Do’set chaps be up to zellen
An’ can meake a tidy swop?
Use ’em well, they’ll use you better;
In good turns they woont be debtor,
An’ so comely,
An’ so hwomely,
Be the maidens, if your son
Took woone o’m, then you’d cry ‘Well done!’
Friend an’ wife,
Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers,
Happy, happy, be their life!
Vor Do’set dear,
Then gi’e woone cheer;
D’ye hear? woone cheer!

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