Fall: Eclogue – Two Farms in Woone
TWO FARMS IN WOONE.
Robert an’ Thomas.
ROBERT.
You’ll lose your meaester soon, then, I do vind;
He’s gwain to leaeve his farm, as I do larn,
At Mielmas; an’ I be zorry vor’n.
What, is he then a little bit behind?
THOMAS.
O no! at Mielmas his time is up,
An’ thik there sly wold fellow, Farmer Tup,
A-fearen that he’d get a bit o’ bread,
‘V a-been an’ took his farm here over’s head.
ROBERT.
How come the Squire to treat your meaester zoo?
THOMAS.
Why, he an’ meaester had a word or two.
ROBERT.
Is Farmer Tup a-gwain to leaeve his farm?
He han’t a-got noo young woones vor to zwarm.
Poor over-reachen man! why to be sure
He don’t want all the farms in parish, do er?
THOMAS.
Why ees, all ever he can come across,
Last year, you know, he got away the eaecre
Or two o’ ground a-rented by the beaeker,
An’ what the butcher had to keep his hoss;
An’ vo’k do beaenhan’ now, that meaester’s lot
Will be a-drowd along wi’ what he got.
ROBERT.
That’s it. In theaese here pleaece there used to be
Eight farms avore they wer a-drowd together,
An’ eight farm-housen. Now how many be there?
Why after this, you know there’ll be but dree.
THOMAS.
An’ now they don’t imploy so many men
Upon the land as work’d upon it then,
Vor all they midden crop it worse, nor stock it.
The lan’lord, to be sure, is into pocket;
Vor half the housen been down, ’tis clear,
Don’t cost so much to keep em up, a-near.
But then the jobs o’ work in wood an’ morter
Do come I 'spose, you know, a little shorter;
An’ many that wer little farmers then,
Be now a-come all down to leaeb’ren men;
An’ many leaeb’ren men, wi’ empty hands,
Do live lik’ drones upon the worker’s lands.
ROBERT.
Aye, if a young chap, woonce, had any wit
To try an’ scrape together zome vew pound,
To buy some cows an’ teaeke a bit o’ ground,
He mid become a farmer, bit by bit.
But, hang it! now the farms be all so big,
An’ bits o’ groun’ so skeae’ce, woone got no scope;
If woone could seaeve a poun’, woone couldden hope
To keep noo live stock but a little pig.
THOMAS.
Why here wer vourteen men, zome years agoo,
A-kept a-drashen half the winter drough;
An’ now, woone’s drashels be’n’t a bit o’ good.
They got machines to drashy wi’, plague teaeke em!
An’ he that vu’st vound out the way to meaeke em,
I’d drash his busy zides vor’n if I could!
Avore they took away our work, they ought
To meaeke us up the bread our leaebour bought.
ROBERT.
They hadden need meaeke poor men’s leaebour less,
Vor work a’ready is uncommon skeae’ce.
THOMAS.
Ah! Robert! times be badish vor the poor;
An’ worse will come, I be a-fear’d, if Moore
In theaese year’s almanick do tell us right.
ROBERT.
Why then we sartainly must starve. Good night!
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