First Collection. Fall. Guy Faux’s Night
Guy Faux’s night, dost know, we chaps, A-putten on our woldest traps, Went up the highest o’ the knaps, An’ meäde up such a vier! An’ thou an’ Tom wer all we miss’d, Vor if a sarpent had a-hiss’d Among the rest in thy sprack vist, Our fun ’d a-been the higher. We chaps at hwome, an’ Will our cousin, Took up a half a lwoad o’ vuzzen; An’ burn’d a barrel wi’ a dozen O’ faggots, till above en The fleämes, arisèn up so high ’S the tun, did snap, an’ roar, an’ ply, Lik’ vier in an’ oven. An’ zome wi’ hissèn squibs did run, To paÿ off zome what they’d a-done, An’ let em off so loud’s a gun Ageän their smokèn polls; An’ zome did stir their nimble pags Wi’ crackers in between their lags, While zome did burn their cwoats to rags, Or wes’cots out in holes. An’ zome o’m’s heads lost half their locks, An’ zome o’m got their white smock-frocks Jist fit to vill the tinder-box, Wi’ half the backs o’m off; An’ Dick, that all o’m vell upon, Vound woone flap ov his cwoat-taïl gone, An’ tother jist a-hangèn on, A-zweal’d so black’s a snoff.
William Barnes’s other poems:
- First Collection. Winter. Keepèn up o’ Chris’mas
- Third Collection. Comen Hwome
- Second Collection. Slow to come, quick agone
- Second Collection. John Bleäke at Hwome
- Third Collection. Things do Come Round
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