First Collection. Fall. Two Farms in Woone
Eclogue
Robert an’ Thomas.
ROBERT.
You’ll lose your meäster soon, then, I do vind;
He’s gwaïn to leäve his farm, as I do larn,
At Miëlmas; an’ I be zorry vor’n.
What, is he then a little bit behind?
THOMAS.
O no! at Miëlmas his time is up,
An’ thik there sly wold fellow, Farmer Tup,
A-fearèn that he’d get a bit o’ bread,
’V a-been an’ took his farm here over’s head.
ROBERT.
How come the Squire to treat your meäster zoo?
THOMAS.
Why, he an’ meäster had a word or two.
ROBERT.
Is Farmer Tup a-gwaïn to leave his farm?
He han’t a-got noo young woones vor to zwarm.
Poor over-reachèn man! why to be sure
He don’t want all the farms in parish, do er?
THOMAS.
Why ees, all ever he can come across,
Last year, you know, he got away the eäcre
Or two o’ ground a-rented by the beäker,
An’ what the butcher had to keep his hoss;
An’ vo’k do beänhan’ now, that meäster’s lot
Will be a-drowd along wi’ what he got.
ROBERT.
That’s it. In theäse here pleäce there used to be
Eight farms avore they wer a-drowd together,
An’ eight farm-housen. Now how many be there?
Why after this, you know there’ll be but dree.
THOMAS.
An’ now they don’t imploy so many men
Upon the land as work’d upon it then,
Vor all they midden crop it worse, nor stock it.
The lan’lord, to be sure, is into pocket;
Vor half the housen beën down, ’tis clear,
Don’t cost so much to keep em up, a-near.
But then the jobs o’ work in wood an’ morter
Do come I ’spose, you know, a little shorter;
An’ many that wer little farmers then,
Be now a-come all down to leäb’rèn men;
An’ many leäb’rèn men, wi’ empty hands,
Do live lik’ drones upon the worker’s lands.
ROBERT.
Aye, if a young chap, woonce, had any wit
To try an’ scrape together zome vew pound,
To buy some cows an’ teäke a bit o’ ground,
He mid become a farmer, bit by bit.
But, hang it! now the farms be all so big,
An’ bits o’ groun’ so skeä’ce, woone got no scope;
If woone could seäve a poun’, woone couldden hope
To keep noo live stock but a little pig.
THOMAS.
Why here wer vourteen men, zome years agoo,
A-kept a-drashèn half the winter drough;
An’ now, woone’s drashels be’n’t a bit o’ good.
They got machines to drashy wi’, plague teäke em!
An’ he that vu’st vound out the way to meäke em,
I’d drash his busy zides vor’n if I could!
Avore they took away our work, they ought
To meäke us up the bread our leäbour bought.
ROBERT.
They hadden need meäke poor men’s leäbour less,
Vor work a’ready is uncommon skeä’ce.
THOMAS.
Ah! Robert! times be badish vor the poor;
An’ worse will come, I be a-fear’d, if Moore
In theäse year’s almanick do tell us right.
ROBERT.
Why then we sartainly must starve. Good night!
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
950
