Are there any folk familiar with the Wiltshire dialect of English?

[varyar]

If so, I'd be supremely in your debt if you could give the following passage a run through with a red pen. A bit of background that may help: this takes place in 1889 in the fictional county of Barsetshire. To simplify things, I've decided to represent the rural dialect of said county with that of 19th century Wiltshire

Comments

[varyar]

Many, many, many thanks!

John is indeed speaking more "proper" English.

As for the rest, looks good to me. How does this revised version look?

***

John hailed him. “Hiyerr, naighbor,” he said with a nod to the old farmer. Then he turned to William and Frome. “This be Sam Leadley.”
“A pleasure, Mr. Leadley,” William said.
“These be my employer William Wedgefield an Mr. Vincent Frome of tha town.”
“Good ev’nen ta ye, Mister Wedgefield, Mister Frome. Good ta meet ye, zirs,” Sam said, nodding slowly as he did.
John continued in a rather leisurely fashion. “We was talking jist now about tha old Abbey.”
Sam offered another slow nod.
“An I tell ye, Mr. William, there be no better ta tell ye about tha Abbey than Sam, not even if ye go ta London.”
“Is that so?” William asked Sam.
Sam rubbed his tiny, wrinkled jaw. “I knows a story ar two, zirs.”
“Do any happen to involve, say, ghosts?” William inquired.
“Zhurely one da, zir. I hearded it from old Mister Bowey. ‘E wur in tha pay of tha High Zheriff of Barzhetshere in old King Willum’s day. ‘E wur a smart one an thit right ta tha end. I wur a boy when I heared it. ‘E told me tha story hisself...” Sam trailed off, ruminating in silence.
After a moment or two, William said “What story did he tell you?”
Sam fixed him with a slightly reproving look. “About tha Abbey an what he zaw. It wur Walpurghsnight, when tha witches be about. Bowey, ‘e be about, too, ‘tween tha pub an his house, an thit wur on tha lane - thic thar lane.” The old farmer pointed one gnarled, stubby finger at the road ahead, then swept his arm over to the woods to their left, and the old Abbey ruins within them. As the sun began to set, the tall trees and stones - yes, William could just barely see the skeleton of the old Abbey, too - took on a slightly unsettling appearance, which embarrassed and irritated the explorer.
“He wur no fool, and zo he hurried on, but, an thic zhurely wur nigh where we be standing now, ahh, the lights...” Sam stopped again to gather the memories, or put them together - fortunately not for as long this time. “Blue lights, they wur, blue an red, an dancing, he zays ta me.”
“Dancing?” Frome interjected.
“Ay, dancing. Zo he zays ta me. Thit wur only tha start! He zays ta me, ‘I looked at them an they looked at me, Zam, an amang them wur tha White Ooman.’”
“White Woman?”
“Ay, tha one thit be zeen in tha ruins. Thit be another story. Az for Bowey - an then, oh, then tha chase!”
‘Chase?’ I zaid. Zays he, ‘Ay, chase! Tha lights, they da come out of tha woods, on her word I think, an if I han’t run, who knowed what might happen? Tha lights may have taken me away -‘”
“Take him away? To where?” Frome asked.
Sam positively glared. “But he got away from tha Ooman an tha lights,” he continued, ignoring the interruption. “And he ran all tha way back ta tha pub! As it wur closer, zhurely, ar he wur just in a terryable steat a mind. Zo if you want ta go by tha wood on Walpurghsnight, don’t! Measter Chriztopher Braidwood, he could have told ye, too, if...” The farmer trailed off with transparent expectation.
“If?”
“If he wurden taken away!” Sam concluded with a snap of his fingers. And with that, he headed on his way before.