English Poetry. William Barnes. First Collection. Summer. The Brook that Ran by Gramfer’s. Уильям Барнс.

William Barnes (Уильям Барнс)

First Collection. Summer. The Brook that Ran by Gramfer’s

When snow-white clouds wer thin an’ vew
Avore the zummer sky o’ blue,
An’ I’d noo ho but how to vind
Zome plaÿ to entertaïn my mind;
Along the water, as did wind
 Wi’ zedgy shoal an’ hollow crook,
 How I did ramble by the brook
 That ran all down vrom gramfer’s.

A-holdèn out my line beyond
The clote-leaves, wi’ my withy wand,
How I did watch, wi’ eager look,
My zwimmèn cork, a-zunk or shook
By minnows nibblèn at my hook,
 A-thinkèn I should catch a breäce
 O’ perch, or at the least some deäce,
 A-zwimmèn down vrom gramfer’s.

Then ten good deäries wer a-ved
Along that water’s windèn bed,
An’ in the lewth o’ hills an’ wood
A half a score farm-housen stood:
But now,—count all o’m how you would,
 So many less do hold the land,—
 You’d vind but vive that still do stand,
 A-comèn down vrom gramfer’s.

There, in the midst ov all his land,
The squier’s ten-tunn’d house did stand,
Where he did meäke the water clim’
A bank, an’ sparkle under dim
Bridge arches, villèn to the brim
 His pon’, an’ leäpèn, white as snow,
 Vrom rocks a-glitt’rèn in a bow,
 An’ runnèn down to gramfer’s.

An’ now woone wing is all you’d vind
O’ thik girt house a-left behind;
An’ only woone wold stwonen tun
’S a-stannèn to the raïn an’ zun,—
An’ all’s undone that he’d a-done;
 The brook ha’ now noo call to staÿ
 To vill his pon’ or clim’ his baÿ,
 A-runnèn down to gramfer’s.

When woonce, in heavy raïn, the road
At Grenley bridge wer overflow’d,
Poor Sophy White, the pleäces pride,
A-gwaïn vrom market, went to ride
Her pony droo to tother zide;
 But vound the streäm so deep an’ strong,
 That took her off the road along
 The hollow down to gramfer’s.

’Twer dark, an’ she went on too vast
To catch hold any thing she pass’d;
Noo bough hung over to her hand,
An’ she could reach noo stwone nor land,
Where woonce her little voot could stand;
 Noo ears wer out to hear her cries,
 Nor wer she woonce a-zeen by eyes,
 Till took up dead at gramfer’s.

William Barnes’s other poems:

1. First Collection. Winter. Keepèn up o’ Chris’mas
2. Third Collection. Comen Hwome
3. Second Collection. Slow to come, quick agone
4. Second Collection. John Bleäke at Hwome
5. Third Collection. Things do Come Round

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