The Frome, wi’ ever-water’d brink,
Do run where shelvèn hills do zink
Wi’ housen all a-cluster’d roun’
The parish tow’rs below the down.
An’ now, vor woonce, at leäst, ov all
The pleäcen where the stream do vall,
There’s woone that zome to-day mid vind,
Wi’ things a-suited to their mind.
An’ that’s out where the Fancy Feäir
Is on at Maïden Newton.
An’ vo’k, a-smarten’d up, wull hop
Out here, as ev’ry traïn do stop,
Vrom up the line, a longish ride,
An’ down along the river-zide.
An’ zome do beät, wi’ heels an’ tooes,
The leänes an’ paths, in nimble shoes,
An’ bring, bezides, a biggish knot,
Ov all their childern that can trot,
A-vlockèn where the Fancy Feäir
Is here at Maïden Newton.
If you should goo, to-day, avore
A _Chilfrome_ house or _Downfrome_ door,
Or _Frampton’s_ park-zide row, or look
Drough quiet _Wraxall’s_ slopy nook,
Or elbow-streeted _Catt’stock_, down
By _Castlehill’s_ cwold-winded crown,
An’ zee if vo’k be all at hwome,
You’d vind em out–they be a-come
Out hither, where the Fancy Feäir
Is on at Maïden Newton.
Come, young men, come, an’ here you’ll vind
A gift to please a maïden’s mind;
Come, husbands, here be gifts to please
Your wives, an’ meäke em smile vor days;
Come, so’s, an’ buy at Fancy Feäir
A keepseäke vor your friends elsewhere;
You can’t but stop an’ spend a cwein
Wi’ leädies that ha’ goods so fine;
An’ all to meake, vor childern’s seäke,
The School at Maïden Newton.
—————
The End
And that’s the End of the Poem
© Poetry Monster, 2021.
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