At Easter, though the wind wer high,
We vound we had a zunny sky,
An’ zoo wold Dobbin had to trudge
His dousty road by knap an’ brudge,
An’ jog, wi’ hangèn vetterlocks
A-sheäkèn roun’ his heavy hocks,
An’ us, a lwoad not much too small,
A-ridèn out to Brookwell Hall;
An’ there in doust vrom Dobbin’s heels,
An’ green light-waggon’s vower wheels,
Our merry laughs did loudly sound,
In rollèn winds athirt the ground;
While sheenèn-ribbons’ color’d streäks
Did flutter roun’ the maïdens’ cheäks,
As they did zit, wi’ smilèn lips,
A-reachèn out their vinger-tips
Toward zome teäkèn pleäce or zight
That they did shew us, left or right;
An’ woonce, when Jimmy tried to pleäce
A kiss on cousin Polly’s feäce,
She push’d his hat, wi’ wicked leers,
Right off above his two red ears,
An’ there he roll’d along the groun’
Wi’ spreadèn brim an’ rounded crown,
An’ vound, at last, a cowpon’s brim,
An’ launch’d hizzelf, to teäke a zwim;
An’ there, as Jim did run to catch
His neäked noddle’s bit o’ thatch,
To zee his straïnèns an’ his strides,
We laugh’d enough to split our zides.
At Harwood Farm we pass’d the land
That father’s father had in hand,
An’ there, in oben light did spread,
The very groun’s his cows did tread,
An’ there above the stwonèn tun
Avore the dazzlèn mornèn zun,
Wer still the rollèn smoke, the breath
A-breath’d vrom his wold house’s he’th;
An’ there did lie below the door,
The drashol’ that his vootsteps wore;
But there his meäte an’ he bwoth died,
Wi’ hand in hand, an’ zide by zide;
Between the seäme two peals a-rung,
Two Zundays, though they wer but young,
An’ laid in sleep, their worksome hands,
At rest vrom tweil wi’ house or lands.
Then vower childern laid their heads
At night upon their little beds,
An’ never rose ageän below
A mother’s love, or father’s ho:
Dree little maïdens, small in feäce,
An’ woone small bwoy, the fourth in pleäce
Zoo when their heedvul father died,
He call’d his brother to his zide,
To meäke en stand, in hiz own stead,
His childern’s guide, when he wer dead;
But still avore zix years brought round
The woodland goo-coo’s zummer sound,
He weästed all their little store,
An’ hardship drove em out o’ door,
To tweil till tweilsome life should end.
‘Ithout a single e’thly friend.
But soon wi’ Harwood back behind,
An’ out o’ zight an’ out o’ mind,
We went a-rottlèn on, an’ meäde
Our way along to Brookwell Sleäde;
An’ then we vound ourselves draw nigh
The Leädy’s Tow’r that rose on high,
An’ seem’d a-comèn on to meet,
Wi’ growèn height, wold Dobbin’s veet.
—————
The End
And that’s the End of the Poem
© Poetry Monster, 2021.
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