First Collection. Summer. Bees a-Zwarmèn
Avore we went a-milkèn, vive Or six o’s here wer all alive A-teäkèn bees that zwarm’d vrom hive; An’ we’d sich work to catch The hummèn rogues, they led us sich A dance all over hedge an’ ditch; An’ then at last where should they pitch, But up in uncle’s thatch? Dick rung a sheep-bell in his han’. Liz beät a cannister, an’ Nan Did bang the little fryèn-pan Wi’ thick an’ thumpèn blows; An’ Tom went on, a-carrèn roun’ A bee-pot up upon his crown, Wi’ all his edge a-reachèn down Avore his eyes an’ nose. An’ woone girt bee, wi’ spitevul hum, Stung Dicky’s lip, an’ meäde it come All up amost so big’s a plum; An’ zome, a-vleèn on, Got all roun’ Liz, an’ meäde her hop An’ scream, a-twirlèn lik’ a top, An’ spring away right backward, flop Down into barken pon’: An’ Nan’ gi’ed Tom a roguish twitch Upon a bank, an’ meäde en pitch Right down, head-voremost, into ditch,— Tom coulden zee a wink. An’ when the zwarm wer seäfe an’ sound In mother’s bit o’ bee-pot ground, She meäde us up a treat all round O’ sillibub to drink.
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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