First Collection. Spring. May
Come out o’door, ’tis Spring! ’tis Maÿ The trees be green, the vields be gaÿ; The weather’s warm, the winter blast, Wi’ all his traïn o’ clouds, is past; The zun do rise while vo’k do sleep. To teäke a higher daily zweep, Wi’ cloudless feäce a-flingèn down His sparklèn light upon the groun’. The aïr’s a-streamèn soft,—come drow The windor open; let it blow In drough the house, where vire, an’ door A-shut, kept out the cwold avore. Come, let the vew dull embers die, An’ come below the open sky; An’ wear your best, vor fear the groun’ In colours gaÿ mid sheäme your gown: An’ goo an’ rig wi’ me a mile Or two up over geäte an’ stile, Drough zunny parrocks that do leäd, Wi’ crooked hedges, to the meäd, Where elems high, in steätely ranks, Do rise vrom yollow cowslip-banks, An’ birds do twitter vrom the spraÿ O’ bushes deck’d wi’ snow-white maÿ; An’ gil’cups, wi’ the deäisy bed, Be under ev’ry step you tread. We’ll wind up roun’ the hill, an’ look All down the thickly-timber’d nook, Out where the squier’s house do show His grey-wall’d peaks up drough the row O’ sheädy elems, where the rook Do build her nest; an’ where the brook Do creep along the meäds, an’ lie To catch the brightness o’ the sky; An’ cows, in water to theïr knees, Do stan’ a-whiskèn off the vlees. Mother o’ blossoms, and ov all That’s feäir a-vield vrom Spring till Fall, The gookoo over white-weäv’d seas Do come to zing in thy green trees, An’ buttervlees, in giddy flight, Do gleäm the mwost by thy gaÿ light. Oh! when, at last, my fleshly eyes Shall shut upon the vields an’ skies, Mid zummer’s zunny days be gone, An’ winter’s clouds be comèn on: Nor mid I draw upon the e’th, O’ thy sweet aïr my leätest breath; Alassen I mid want to staÿ Behine’ for thee, O flow’ry May!
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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