nyzt,
And mekelyche cry hym mercy & seynt Edel!”
Another attitude towards dialect appears in the Elizabethan poets. Their passion for beauty in language guided them to an unequalled quantity of discoveries of far-fetched words; but this did not mean that they despised old English as a source of new beauty. One of our chief literary critics says somewhere of them that “ There was, I think, an understanding among learned poets that because Greek pastoral poetry used the Doric dialect, therefore English poetry of the same character must be at least sprinkled with dialect words.… In drama, the ordinary way of indicating a rustic was to put in his mouth some turns of speech from Somerset. You will find this in King Lear.” Philip Sidney, of course, used the Wiltshire dialect in this manner in his Eclogues in the Arcadia. An enchanting instance of this appears in the final verses of the well-known song beginning “My true love hath my heart”:
O words which fall like sommer dew on me,
O breath more sweet, than is the growing beane,
O tongue in which all honyed liquors be,
O voyce that doth the thrush in shrilnesse staine,
Doe you say still, this is her promise due,
That she is mine, as I to her am true.
Gay haire, more gay than straw when harvest lies,
Lips red and plump, as cherries ruddie side,
Eyes faire and great, like faire great Oxes eyes,
O breast in which two white sheepe swell in pride:
Joyne you with me, to seale this promise due,
That she be mine, as I to her am true.
But thou white skin, as white as cruddes well prest,
So smooth as sleekestone, like it smoothes each part,
And thou deare flesh, as soft as wooll new drest,
And yet as hard as brawne, made hard by art:
First fower by say, next fower their saying seale,
But you must pay the gage of promist weale.
I mean to quote one verse from one of the songs in another eclogue merely because of one particular word which occurs in it:
A neighbour mine not long agoe there was,
(But nameless he, for blameless he shall be)
That married had a tricke and bonny lasse
As in sommer day a man might see:
But he himselfe a foule unhandsome groome,
And farre unfit to hold so good a roome.
The word to note is “ tricke”. This is a truly Wiltshire word. Among the documents belonging to the Corporation of Wilton there is the record of a grant of some land at Netherhampton to the Church of Saint Edith at Wilton. Upon it is a round seal, within a quatrefoil border, a heart; from which spring three branches supporting two birds, billing. Legend, “ TRWE . BE . LOVE . TRIK . TRWE”. There is no town or village in Wiltshire in which this word (now pronounced Trig) is not still in constant use, in any connection where the meaning tight, true, faithful, sound or firm is required.
Here is an extract from a translation of the Song of Solomon into the Wiltshire dialect. It was made at the end of the eighteenth century by Edward Kite:
“I be come athin my gearden, my zuster, my spouse: I’ve apicked my myrrh wi’ my spice: I’ve a yeat my honeycwoämb wi’ my honey: I’ve drinked my wine wi’ my milk; yeat aw vrend drïnk! yea drink vreely aw beloved.
I zleeps but my heart do weake; ’tuz the voice o’ my beloved as knocks, zayun, Aupen to m’ my zuster, my love, my dove, my undefiled; vor my yead uz villed wi’ dew, an my locks wi’ th’ draps o’ th’ night.
I’ve a doffed my cwoät, how shall I don un? I’ve a wyshed my veet, how shall I dirt ’em?
My beloved put in huz hond by th’ howle o’ th’ dwoor, an my bowels wur moved vor un.
I got up t’aupen t’ my beloved; an my bones drapped wi’ myrrh, an my vingers wi’ sweet-smellun myrrh, upon th’ handle o’ th’ lock.
I aupened t’ my beloved, but a wur turned awoay an gone: my zowl failed when a spuoke: I zought un, but I couldn’t vind un; I called to un, but a gee’d m’ no answer.
Th’ watchmen as went about th’ zitty vound m’, tha hut m’, tha hurted m’; the kippurs o’ th’ walls tuk awoäy my veil vrum m’.
I sharges ye aw, da’ters o’ Jerusalem, if ye vinds my beloved that he tells un as I be zick o’ love.
What’s yer beloved mwore than another beloved, aw ye foirest among wimmen? what’s yer beloved mwore than another beloved, what ye do zo charge we?
My beloved uz white an ruddy, th’ chiefest amang ten thousand. Hiz yead’s lik mwost vine goold, huz locks be bushy, an black as a reäven.
Huz eyes be lik th’ eyes o’ doves by th’ rivers o’ waters, wyshed wi’ milk, an vitly zet.
Huz cheeks be lik a bed o’ spices an zweet vlowers, buz lups lilies, droppun zweet-smellun myrrh.
Huz honds be lik goold ring zet wi’ th’ beryl: huz belly’s lik bright ivory auverlaid wi’ zapphires.
Huz legs lik pillars o’ marble, set upon zockets o’ vine goold: huz veace uz lik Lebanon, excellent as th’ zedars.
Huz mouth’s mwost sweet: ees, a’s aeltogether lovely. Thus uz my beloved, and thus uz my vrend, aw da’ters o’ Jerusalem.”
And again:
“I be th’ rwoas o’ sharun, an th’ lilly o’ th’ valley. As a lilly amang tharns, so uz my love amang tha moydens.”
Dialect is, of course, primarily a spoken language, and renews its life by passing orally from mouth to mouth; so its development can seldom be followed in the written word. Now and again, at long intervals, a spontaneous piece of written dialect comes to life and this is an instance, from Country Days by A. G. Street:
“Just as my train pulled out of Waterloo the other day, a man blundered in, rather out of breath. He put one hand on each wide-spread knee, beamed at me, and said: ‘Jist in time, but I damn near missed her, zno.’
The familiar dialect made me prick up my ears, for ‘ zno’ is pure Wiltshire.
‘That’s the best way to catch trains,’ I said. ‘Waiting about a railway station is a poor job.’
‘Ay, ’tis you,’ he replied. ‘An’ this un’s a good train, zno. Me cousin, ’ee’m an engine driver on the line, ’ ee telled I to ketch this un. “Thee ketch the dree o’clock, Tom.” ’ee says, “an’ she’ll git ’ee down to Zalisbury in a hour an’ a ’alf.” Be you gwaine to Zalisbury, zur?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘and I rather think that we come from the same county.’
‘Wilsher, guvner, an’ you cain’t bate it. This yer Lunnon now, a poorish sort o’ place.’ …
I looked out of the window. A black cloud was coming over. ‘Getting dark,’ I said, ‘ we’re going to get a storm. Well, we can do with it.’
‘You mid be able to,’ said my companion, ‘ but I don’t want none fer a bit. I got vower days gardenin’ to do.’
‘That’s your own fault,’ I said. ‘We’ve had six weeks dry weather. You’re all behind.’
‘I mid be a trifle behin’, but t’ain’t me own vault, guvner. I bin messin’ about up in Kent fer dree days buryin’ a cousin. You know ’ow ’tis. Volk do be born, do marry, an’ do die, an when any o’ that do ’appen, zumbody in the vamily got to zee to it. Theaze time the lot veil on I, an’ there twer. ’Ow-somever, we’ve a planted ’im all right, an’ I’d a zight zooner bin plantin’ spuds. Buryin’s a poor sort o’ job. But you be like all they farmers. You do want rain, an’ you don’t care a mossel about nobody else.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘ I don’t. In these days it’s every man for himself.’
‘True enough, guvner, true enough, but you farmers be a zelfish lot. I do know a main bit about farmers. Not but what I didn’t git on all right wie ’em, when I wur a keeper. You cain’t run a keeperin’ beat be quarrellin’ wie the farmers. But look ’ow they do worry on about rabbits, an’ never bother a bit about ketchin’ their rats.’ …
‘Well, yers Zalisbury, guvner, an’ we mus’ part. But I’ve a enjoyed comin’ down wie ’ee. Jist about. Most volk in
trains do zit up mum, zno, as though if they did speak they’d be givin’ zummat precious away. But you’ve spoke I vair all the way along, an’ you’ve telled I a lot. Good-day to ’ee.’
As I gathered my things together I couldn’t help thinking that the boot was decidedly on the other foot.”
One final passage must be given to show not only the words used but also the racy, humorous, truly local point of view. Edward Slow was a carriage-builder in Wilton during the latter part of the nineteenth century—a student of Wiltshire history, a natural poet and observer of country life, and a man of fervent local patriotism. The famous Wilton sheep-fair has now lost much of its glory. Instead of a hundred thousand sheep being sold in one morning in the fair ground, the number is seldom more than fifteen thousand. But the epitaph “ Ichabod, the Glory is departed” will never be written over its memory so long as Slow’s poem can be read to recall the crowded scene, the bleating of the sheep, the lowing of the cattle, and the unending clamour of Wiltshire voices in which the business was so humorously carried on. Need one understand the dialect to enjoy this final masterpiece?
Ower Girt Zeptember Vair
Of ael naizes an zenes in tha country that are,
Ther’s nuthen ta beat ower girt Zeptember vair;
Var huzzle, an bussle, an tussle we man an wie be-ast,
It can vie wie any in tha country at least.
Now if ya da dout it, com an zee var yer-zelf,
An be here day avore, Zeptember tha twelth;
When about dinner time ya zure will begin,
Ta hear indycashions of tha vorth comin din.
Then on tha vair morn of tha clock about two,
Outzid a yer dwoor ye’ll hear much ado;
That is, if you’m sleepen in tha bayberhood too,
An beant zunk too deep in a girt snorin stew.
You’ll turn, an you’ll twis, an mutter what’s this?
An agean try ta zink in slumberin bliss;
Then praps var a nower, you may get a snooze,
Ael depens, ta wither much naise you’ve been used.
Bit wither or notm agean about vour, you’ll zadly
deplore,
That vor tha naize at yer door,
Tha bussle an roar, ya raaly caant snore,
An praps in a bore you’ll turn oer an oer,
Ta get a wink more.
But you’ll vind tis useless, an that you’ll convess, as ya
jump up, an dress in half drowsiness.
When dress’d, about vive,
In tha street you arrive;
Which is ael alive,
Like bees in a hive;
An mabby you’ll contrive
At tha vair to arrive;
If hardly ya strive,
Mang tha bussle ta dive;
An goo in an out, like a rickety wheel,
Ar like country chaps a dancen a reel.
But wen wonce at the vair,
Dang if you wunt declare:
You wurd’nt aware,
Twur sich an affair.
An mainly you’ll stare,
To zee voke here an there,
Run like mad everywhere,
As tho in a scare,
Be the steat of their hair,
An ther eyes wen they stare;
Tis a terryable glare,
Nuthun can we it compare.
To hear varmers a shouten, an scoutin, an poutin,
Especially fat ones, that av got tha gout in,
An shepherds a tearin, an swearin, and blarin,
An dogs a prowlin, an howlin, an growlin;
At ther poor leetle vlock, ta get em in dock, avore zix
o’clock,
Ar vore there’s a block.
Jist hark at their slang,
In ther neative twaing;
Well, I’m dang, if there the beant, all amang.
Poor gentle sheep, var you I veels deep, as tho I could
weep,
Ta zee ee zo huddled ael up in a heap,
That too wie out keep;
An there to remain var howrs in yer pain,
I knaa you hood fain be away on tha plain,
We nuthen to restrain on tha grassy domain;
Wie no hurry, or skurry, or strainge curs ta wurry.…
’Tis twelve o’clock, an in full swing is tha Auctioneer’s
ring,
Round his box voke cram, as he baals out ta Zam,
Ta bring in tha vust ram;
Now gents, wieout any sham, or epigram,
What shall I zay, vor this beautiful ram?
While the waitin man Zam, bans roun a dram,
Two guineas I hear, in a voice not very clear,
That man he must jeer, or else be in beer;
He cant be zincere, to offer a price zo queer, vor a ram
like this here:
Dree, Vower, Vive, well gents if ya strive,
No doubt you’ll contrive, at his vair price ta arrive:
Zix is bid; well, if ever I did;
Look at the price, he’s woth it drice, com be concise,
an not za nice: wat a zacriflce.
Zam! to tha bidders roun pass another glass, thay
require more brass; Tha grog an wine da sparkle an shine an goes down
ache line,
Zom decline bit mwostly incline;
Another spurr, zeven I yer;
Then vrum a woold pate, corns out plump an straite,
Here, I’ll gie ee haite, ta end tha debate.
Dally knock un down, zays a countery clown,
An the seller rewards un, wie a terryable vroun.
Then ta nine, another gies tha sign,
Whose eyes da sparkle an shine;
No doubt, effects of tha wine.
Going! going! have ya done? have ya done?
Then roun his quick eyes da run;
Have ya done, wonce again?
Mine I shill not long detain
In pleadings vain;
He looks agen at tha men, who vlock roun tha pen,
Up goes his hand; a voice baals out ten;
An mang ael tha clammer, down goes tha hammer,
An tha lam is zoon hurried out a tha pen,
Ta meak room var another, jist like tha other, one
hood think ’twas a brother,
Then ael tha zeam bother is gone droo agen.
If ya’ve any regard var tha implement yard,
Jist teak a glimpse, but be on yer gard;
Var straps an wheels are continually runnin
An tha naise too is stunnin.
Here be hoers, an mowers, an blowers,
Draigs an jaigs, tha lan ta scarify, and poor vield mice
to terrify.
Mills an drills, elevators and cultevators,
Dressers and pressers, barrers, an larrers, an things ta
ketch sparrers;
Mill stounes an wet stounes,
Rakers and graters, rapers and crapers,
Lifters and zifters, machines for dippin and clippin,
In fact ael things that are out, you zee’s laid about,
Ta cultivate lan, by team or by han;
An lots to stan in girt deman,
But raaly var what use I doont understan;
Every vair their’s zure to be implements newer,
All tha pertickulars of which you can get vrim vren
Brewer.
To tha hoss vair advance, an jist gie a glance,
Bit wie girt viligance, var thay rear an thay prance, as
though touched wie a lance,
Especially thay, vrim Erin ar Vrance;
Any zart a steed, you med zee yer indeed,
Any zart a breed, ta jog ar ta speed;
Bit if ya one need, you mist teak girt heed,
An main caushious prozeed, if ya hood succeed.
Var thease dealers, be zich consalers, an knowin
veelers,
An I’ve yeard tha peelers, zay zom on em be girt stal
ers; …
Chep Jack beings now to prate,
On his voot bouard a state,
An a crowd a da zoon captivate; …
Ah! here’s a tay-pot, tha ony one I’ve got,
There beant another in stock,
Tha last of a splendid lot;
Ya zee he’s zilver pure,
Of that ya med be zure,
An ya caant one like un procure,
In a zilver smith’s shop, I’ll be boun,
Var less than a poun,
That is, like thase pure an zoun;
Yer! I shaant zay a poun or a half,
Ah! you med laff an think it chaff;
Yer! nine, eight, zeven, zix;
Yer! as true as I’m alive, an in a bit of a fix,
You shell av un var vive,
Ya wunt; very well, I’ll putt un by.
Yer I wonce mwoar a goes var vour,
Yer! hang me, as I’m out on tha spree,
Ya shill av un vor dree;
Yer! two an eleven, two an nine,
Last time, now mine,
Well, as I’m come ta thase town,
Ta get a leetle renown;
Tho I know I’m done brown,
Zounds, here a gooes var half a crown;
An a knocks un down to a countery clown,
Wie a giggle between a laff an a vrown.
Then his store, he agean do explore,
An brings out wie a roar,
One more jist like the one before.
Chapter Seven
A MEDIÆVAL SCHOOL OF PAINTING
IN the last years of the fourteenth century there was in the neighbourhood of Salisbury an artist who is now unknown to the world except to those acquainted with his few masterpieces. For us he has no name. We know nothing of his home. But the books he painted are, or should be, among the prides of Wiltshire. What could an artist ask more? The Sarum Master, as he has been called, left behind him five, or possibly six, volumes of painting, which are obviously by the same hand, and that is a master hand. These volumes are: the Sarum Missal and Bible, the Wilton and Amesbury Psalters, and a medical manuscript consisting of five treatises, which before the war was in the collection of Baron Robert von Hirsch at Frankfurt in Germany. At the moment it is lost to sight, and it may never be found again.
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