First Collection. Fall. Teäkèn in Apples
We took the apples in last week, An’ got, by night, zome eächèn backs A-stoopèn down all day to pick So many up in mawns an’ zacks. An’ there wer Liz so proud an’ prim, An’ dumpy Nan, an’ Poll so sly; An’ dapper Tom, an’ loppèn Jim, An’ little Dick, an’ Fan, an’ I. An’ there the lwoaded tree bent low, Behung wi’ apples green an’ red; An’ springèn grass could hardly grow, Drough windvalls down below his head. An’ when the maïdens come in roun’ The heavy boughs to vill their laps, We slily shook the apples down Lik’ haïl, an’ gi’ed their backs some raps. An’ zome big apple, Jimmy flung To squaïl me, gi’ed me sich a crack; But very shortly his ear rung, Wi’ woone I zent to paÿ en back. An’ after we’d a-had our squaïls, Poor Tom, a-jumpèn in a bag, Wer pinch’d by all the maïden’s naïls, An’ rolled down into hwome-groun’ quag. An’ then they carr’d our Fan all roun’, ’Ithin a mawn, till zome girt stump Upset en over on the groun’, An’ drow’d her out along-straïght, plump. An’ in the cider-house we zot Upon the windlass Poll an’ Nan, An’ spun ’em roun’ till they wer got So giddy that they coulden stan’.
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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