The Dialect of the West of England; Particularly Somersetshire by James Jennings (ebooks children's books free .TXT) 📖

made by moles under ground.

Wood-quist. s. A wood-pigeon.

Wordle. s. World. [Transposition of l and d.]

Wor’ra. s. A small round moveable nut or pinion, with grooves in it, and having a hole in its centre, through which the end of a round stick or spill may be thrust. The spill and worra are attached to the common spinning-wheel, which, with those and the turn-string, form the apparatus for spinning wool, &c. Most probably this word, as well as whir’on, is used for whir, to turn round rapidly with a noise.

Wrassly. Wrestle.

To Wride. v. n. To spread abroad; to expand.

Wriggle. s. Any narrow, sinuous hole.

Wrine. s. A mark occasioned by wringing cloth, or by folding it in an irregular manner.

Wring, s. A. Press. A cyder-wring, a cyder-press.

To Wrumple. v. a. To discompose: to rumple.

Wrumple. s. A rumple.

Wust. adj. Worst.

 

Y.

 

Yack’er. s. An acre.

Yal. s. Ale.

Yaller. adj. Yellow.

Yal’house. s. An ale-house.

Yap’ern. s. An apron.

Yarly. adj. Early.

Yarm. s. Arm.

Yarth. s. Earth.

Yel. s. An eel.

Yel-spear. s. An instrument for catching eels.

Yes. s. An earthworm.

Yezy. adj. Easy.

Yokes. s. pl. Hiccups.

Yourn. pron. Yours.

 

Z.

 

See the observations which precede the letter S, relative to the change of that letter to Z.

Za. adv. So.

Zâ. v. Say.

Zât. adj. Soft.

Za’tenfare. adj. Softish: applied to the intellects.

To Zam. v. a. To heat for some time over the fire, but not to boil.

Zam’zod, Zam’zodden. adj. Any thing heated for a long time time in a low heat so as to be in part spoiled, is said to be zamzodden.

Conjecture, in etymology, may be always busy. It is not improbable that this word is a compound of semi, Latin, half; and to seethe, to boil: so that Zamzodden will then mean, literally, half-boiled.

Zand. s. Sand.

Zandy. adj. Sandy.

Zand-tot. s. A sandhill.

To Zee. v. a. pret. and part. Zid, Zeed. To see.

Zeeäd. s. Seed. Zeeäd-lip. See SEED-LIP.

Zel. pron. Self.

Zen’vy. s. Wild mustard.

The true etymology will be seen at once in sénevé, French, from sinapi, Latin, contracted and corrupted into Zenvy, Somersetian.

Zil’ker. See SILKER.

Zim, Zim’d. v. Seem, seemed.

Zitch. adj. Such.

Zooäp. s. Soap.

Zog. s. Soft, boggy land; moist land.

Zog’gy. adj. Boggy; wet.

Zoon’er. adv. Rather.

To Zound, To Zoun’dy. v. n. To swoon.

To Zuf’fy. v. n. See TO SUFFY.

Zug’gers! ‘ This is a word, like others of the same class, the precise meaning of which it is not easy to define. I dare say it is a composition of two, or more words, greatly corrupted in pronunciation.

Zull. s. The instrument used for ploughing land; a plough.

Zum. pron. Some.

Zum’met. pron. Somewhat; something.

Zunz. adv. Since.

To Zwail. v. n. To move about with the arms extended, and up and down.

To Zwang. v. n. and v. n. To swing; to move to and fro.

Zwang. s. A swing.

To Zwell. v. a. To swell; to swallow. See TO SWELL.

Zwird. s. Sword.

Zwod’der. s. A drowsy and stupid state of body or mind.

Derived, most probably, from sudor, Latin, a sweat.

 

POEMS AND OTHER PIECES EXEMPLIFYING THE DIALECT OF THE

County of Somersetshire.

 

Notwithstanding the Author has endeavoured, in the Observations on the Dialects of the West, and in The Glossary, to obviate the difficulties under which strangers to the dialect of Somersetshire may, very possibly, labour in the perusal of the following Poems, it may be, perhaps, useful here to remind the reader, that many mere inversions of sound, and differences in pronunciation, are not noted in the Glossary. That it did not appear necessary to explain such words as_ wine, wind; zâ, say; qut, coat; bwile, boil; hoss, horse; hirches, riches; and many others, which it is presumed the context, the Observations, or the Glossary, will sufficiently explain. The Author, therefore, trusts, that by a careful attention to these, the reader will soon become au fait at the interpretation of these West-country LIDDENS.

 

GOOD BWYE TA THEE COT!

 

Good bwye ta thee Cot! whaur tha dâs o’ my childhood Glaw’d bright as tha zun in a mornin o’ mâ; When tha dumbledores hummin, craup out o’ tha cobwâll, An’ shakin ther whings, thâ vleed vooäth an’ awâ. [Footnote: The humble-bee, bombilius major, or dumbledore, makes holes very commonly in mud walls, in which it deposits a kind of farina: in this bee will be found, on dissection, a considerable portion of honey, although it never deposits any.]

Good bwye ta the Cot!—on thy drashel, a-mâ-be, I niver naw moor sholl my voot again zet; Tha jessamy awver thy porch zweetly bloomin, Whauriver I goo, I sholl niver vorget.

Tha rawzes, tha lillies, that blaw in tha borders— The gilawfers, too, that I us’d ta behawld— Tha trees, wi’ tha honeyzucks ranglin âll awver, I âlways sholl think o’ nif I shood be awld.

Tha tutties that oten I pick’d on a zunday, And stickt in my qut—thâ war thawted za fine: Aw how sholl I tell o’m—vor âll pirty maidens When I pass’d ‘em look’d back—ther smill rawze on tha wine.

Good bwye ta thee Ash! which my Father beforne me, A planted, wi’ pleasure, tha dâ I was born; Zâ, oolt thou drap a tear when I cease to behawld thee, An wander awâ droo tha wordle vorlorn.

Good bwye ta thee Tree! an thy cawld shade in zummer; Thy apples, aw who ool be lotted ta shake? When tha wine, mangst thy boughs sifes at Milemas in sorrow, Zâ oolt thou sife for me, or one wild wish awake?

Good bwye ye dun Elves! who, on whings made o’leather, Still roun my poorch whiver an’ whiver at night; Aw mâ naw hord-horted, unveelin disturber, Destrây your snug nests, an your plâ by moonlight.

Good bwye ta thee Bower!—ta thy moss an thy ivy— To tha flowers that aroun thee all blossomin graw; When I’m gwon, oolt thou grieve?—bit ‘tis foolish to ax it; What is ther that’s shower in this wordle belaw?

Good bwye ta thee Cot! whaur my mother za thoughtvul, As zumtimes she war droo er care vor us âll, Er lessins wi’ kindness, wi’ tenderness gid us; An ax’d, war she dead, what ood us bevâll.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! whaur tha nightingale’s music, In tha midnight o’ Mâ-time, rawze loud on the ear; Whaur tha colley awâk’d, wi’ tha zun, an a zingin A went, wi’ tha dirsh, in a voice vull and clear.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! I must goo ta tha city. Whaur, I’m tawld, that the smawk makes it dork at noon dâ; Bit nif it is true, I’m afeard that I âlways And iver sholl thenk on tha cot thatch’d wi’ strâ.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! there is One that râins awver, An wâtches tha wordle, wi’ wisdom divine; Than why shood I mang, wi’ tha many, my ma-bes; Bin there’s readship in Him, an to him I resign.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! shood I niver behauld thee Again; still I thank thee vor âll that is past! Thy friendly ruf shelter’d—while mother wâtch’d awver. An haw’d vor my comfort vrom vust unto last.

Good bwye ta thee Cot; vor the time mâ be longful Beforn I on thy drashall again zet my eye; Thy tutties ool blossom, an daver an blossom Again and again—zaw good bwye, an good bwye!

 

FANNY FEAR

 

The melancholy incident related in the following story, actually occurred a few years ago at Shapwick.

 

Good Gennel-vawk! an if you please To lissen to my storry, A mâ-be ‘tis a jitch a one, Ool make ye zummet zorry.

‘Tis not a hoozay tale of grief, A put wi’ ort together, That where you cry, or where you laugh, Da matter not a veather;

Bit ‘tis a tale vor sartin true, Wi’ readship be it spawken; I knaw it all, begummers! well, By tale, eese, an by tawken.

The maid’s right name war FANNY FEAR, A tidy body lookin; An she cood brew, and she cood bake, An dumplins bwile, and skimmer cake; An all the like o’ cookin.

Upon a Zunday âternoon, Beforne the door a stanin, To zee er chubby cheaks za hird, An whitist lilies roun ‘em spird, A damas rawze her han in,

Ood do your hort good; an er eyes, Dork, vull, an bright, an sporklin; Tha country lads could not goo by, Bit look thâ must—she iver shy, Ood blish—tha timid lorklin!

Her dame war to her desperd kind; She knaw’d er well dezarvin: She gid her good advice an claws, At which she niver toss’d her naws, As zum ool, thawf pon starvin.

She oten yarly upp’d to goo A milkin o’ tha dairy; The meads ring’d loudly wi’ er zong; Aw how she birshed the grass along, As lissom as a vairy!

She war as happy as a prince; Naw princess moor o’ pleasure When well-at-eased cood iver veel; She ly’d her head upon her peel, An vound athin a treasure.

There war a dessent comly youth, Who took’d to her a likin; An when a don’d in zunday claws, You’d thenk en zummet I suppaws, A look’d so desperd strikin.

His vace war like a zummer dâ, When âll the birds be zingin; Smiles an good nature dimplin stood, An moor besides, an âll za good, Much pleasant promise bringin.

Now Jan war sawber, and afeard Nif he in haste shood morry, That he mid long repent thereof; An zo a thwart ‘twar best not, thawf To stâ mid make en zorry.

Jan oten pâss’d the happy door, There Fanny stood a scrubbin; An Fanny hired hiz pleasant voice, An thawt—“An if she had er choice!” An veel’d athin a drubbin.

Bit Jan did’n hulder long iz thawts; Vor thorough iv’ry cranny, Hirn’d of iz Lort tha warm hird tide; An a cood na moor iz veelins bide, Bit tell ‘em must to Fanny.

To Fanny, than, one Whitsun eve, A tawld er how a lov’d er; Naw dove, a zed to er cood be Moor faithvul than to her ood he; His hort had long appruv’d er.

Wi’ timourous blishin, Fanny zed, “A maid mist not believe ye; Vor men ool tell ther lovin tale, And awver seely maids prevail— Bit I dwont like ta grieve ye:

Vor nif za be you now zâ true— That you’ve for I a fancy: (Aw Jan! I dwont veel desperd well, An what’s tha câze, I cannot tell), You’ll zâ na moor to Nancy.”

Twar zaw begin’d their zweetortin; Booäth still liv’d in their places; Zometimes thâ met bezides tha stile; Wi’ pleasant look an tender smile Gaz’d in each wither’s faces.

In spreng-time oten on tha nap Ood Jan and Fanny linger; An when war vooäs’d to zâ “good bwye,” Ood meet again, wi’ draps in eye, While haup ood pwint er vinger.

Zo pass’d tha dâs—tha moons awâ, An haup still whiver’d nigh; Nif Fanny’s dreams high pleasures vill, Of her Jan’s thawts the lidden still, An oten too the zigh.

Bit still Jan had not got wherewi’ To venter eet to morry; Alas-a-dâ! when poor vawk love, How much restraint how many pruv; How zick zum an how zorry.

Aw you who live in houzen grate, An wherewi’ much possessin,