If you vrom Wimborne took your road, To Stower or Paladore, An' all the farmers' housen show'd Their daughters at the door; You'd cry to bachelors at hwome-- "Here, come: 'ithin an hour You'll vind ten maidens to your mind, In Blackmwore by the Stour." An' if you look'd 'ithin their door, To zee em in their pleäce, A-doèn housework up avore Their smilèn mother's feäce; You'd cry,--"Why, if a man would wive An' thrive, 'ithout a dow'r, Then let en look en out a wife In Blackmwore by the Stour." As I upon my road did pass A school-house back in May, There out upon the beäten grass Wer maïdens at their play; An' as the pretty souls did tweil An' smile, I cried, "The flow'r O' beauty, then, is still in bud In Blackmwore by the Stour." MAY Come out o' door, 'tis Spring! 'tis May! The trees be green, the yields be gay; The weather's warm, the winter blast, Wi' all his traïn o' clouds, is past; The zun do rise while vo'k do sleep, To teäke a higher daily zweep, Wi' cloudless feäce a-flingèn down His sparklèn light upon the groun'. The aïr's a-streamèn soft,--come drow The winder open; let it blow In drough the house, where vire, an' door A-shut, kept out the cwold avore. Come, let the vew dull embers die, An' come below the open sky; An' wear your best, vor fear the groun' In colors gäy mid sheäme your gown: An' goo an' rig wi' me a mile Or two up over geäte an' stile, Drough zunny parrocks that do lead, Wi' crooked hedges, to the meäd, Where elems high, in steätely ranks, Do rise vrom yollow cowslip-banks, An' birds do twitter vrom the spräy O' bushes deck'd wi' snow-white mäy; An' gil' cups, wi' the deäisy bed, Be under ev'ry step you tread. We'll wind up roun' the hill, an' look All down the thickly timber'd nook, Out where the squier's house do show His gray-walled peaks up drough the row O' sheädy elems, where the rock Do build her nest; an' where the brook Do creep along the meäds, an' lie To catch the brightness o' the sky; An' cows, in water to theïr knees, Do stan' a-whiskèn off the vlees. Mother o' blossoms, and ov all That's feäir a-vield vrom Spring till Fall, The gookoo over white-weäv'd seas Do come to zing in thy green trees, An' buttervlees, in giddy flight, Do gleäm the mwost by thy gäy light. [Illustration: _MILKING TIME_. Photogravure from a Painting by A. Roll.] Oh! when, at last, my fleshly eyes Shall shut upon the vields an' skies, Mid zummer's zunny days be gone, An' winter's clouds be comèn on: Nor mid I draw upon the e'th, O' thy sweet aïr my leätest breath; Alassen I mid want to stäy Behine' for thee, O flow'ry May! MILKEN TIME