First Collection. Spring. Dock-Leaves
The dock-leaves that do spread so wide Up yonder zunny bank’s green zide, Do bring to mind what we did do At plaÿ wi’ dock-leaves years agoo: How we,—when nettles had a-stung Our little hands, when we wer young,— Did rub em wi’ a dock, an’ zing “Out nettl’, in dock. In dock, out sting.” An’ when your feäce, in zummer’s het, Did sheen wi’ tricklèn draps o’ zweat, How you, a-zot bezide the bank, Didst toss your little head, an pank, An’ teäke a dock-leaf in your han’, An’ whisk en lik’ a leädy’s fan; While I did hunt, ’ithin your zight, Vor streaky cockle-shells to fight. In all our plaÿ-geämes we did bruise The dock-leaves wi’ our nimble shoes; Bwoth where we merry chaps did fling You maïdens in the orcha’d swing, An’ by the zaw-pit’s dousty bank, Where we did taït upon a plank. —(D’ye mind how woonce, you cou’den zit The bwoard, an’ veil off into pit?) An’ when we hunted you about The grassy barken, in an’ out Among the ricks, your vlèe-èn frocks An’ nimble veet did strik’ the docks. An’ zoo they docks, a-spread so wide Up yonder zunny bank’s green zide, Do bring to mind what we did do. Among the dock-leaves years agoo.
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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