First Collection. Summer. Thatchèn o’ the Rick
As I wer out in meäd last week, A-thatchèn o’ my little rick, There green young ee-grass, ankle-high, Did sheen below the cloudless sky; An’ over hedge in tother groun’, Among the bennets dry an’ brown, My dun wold meäre, wi’ neck a-freed Vrom Zummer work, did snort an’ veed; An’ in the sheäde o’ leafy boughs, My vew wold ragged-cwoated cows Did rub their zides upon the raïls, Or switch em wi’ their heäiry taïls. An’ as the mornèn zun rose high Above my mossy roof clwose by, The blue smoke curreled up between The lofty trees o’ feädèn green: A zight that’s touchèn when do show A busy wife is down below, A-workèn hard to cheer woone’s tweil Wi’ her best feäre, an’ better smile. Mid women still in wedlock’s yoke Zend up, wi’ love, their own blue smoke, An’ husbands vind their bwoards a-spread By faïthvul hands when I be dead, An’ noo good men in ouer land Think lightly o’ the weddèn band. True happiness do bide alwone Wi’ them that ha’ their own he’th-stwone To gather wi’ their childern roun’, A-smilèn at the worold’s frown. My bwoys, that brought me thatch an’ spars, Wer down a-taïtèn on the bars, Or zot a-cuttèn wi’ a knife, Dry eltrot-roots to meäke a fife; Or drevèn woone another round The rick upon the grassy ground. An’, as the aïer vrom the west Did fan my burnèn feäce an’ breast, An’ hoppèn birds, wi’ twitt’rèn beaks, Did show their sheenèn spots an’ streaks, Then, wi’ my heart a-vill’d wi’ love An’ thankvulness to God above, I didden think ov anything That I begrudg’d o’ lord or king; Vor I ha’ round me, vur or near, The mwost to love an’ nwone to fear, An’ zoo can walk in any pleäce, An’ look the best man in the feäce. What good do come to eächèn heads, O’ lièn down in silken beds? Or what’s a coach, if woone do pine To zee woone’s naïghbour’s twice so fine? Contentment is a constant feäst, He’s richest that do want the least.
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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