First Collection. Summer. Week’s End in Zummer, in the Wold Vo’k’s Time
His aunt an’ uncle,—ah! the kind Wold souls be often in my mind: A better couple never stood In shoes, an’ vew be voun’ so good. She cheer’d the work-vo’k in their tweils Wi’ timely bits an’ draps, an’ smiles; An’ he païd all o’m at week’s end, Their money down to goo an’ spend. In zummer, when week’s end come roun’ The haÿ-meäkers did come vrom groun’, An’ all zit down, wi’ weary bwones, Within the yard a-peäved wi’ stwones, Along avore the peäles, between The yard a-steän’d an’ open green. There women zot wi’ bare-neck’d chaps, An’ maïdens wi’ their sleeves an’ flaps To screen vrom het their eärms an’ polls, An’ men wi’ beards so black as coals: Girt stocky Jim, an’ lanky John, An’ poor wold Betty dead an’ gone; An’ cleän-grown Tom so spry an’ strong, An’ Liz the best to pitch a zong, That now ha’ nearly half a score O’ childem zwarmèn at her door; An’ whindlen Ann, that cried wi’ fear To hear the thunder when ’twer near,— A zickly maïd, so peäle’s the moon, That voun’ her zun goo down at noon; An’ blushèn Jeäne so shy an’ meek, That seldom let us hear her speak, That wer a-coorted an’ undone By Farmer Woodley’s woldest son; An’ after she’d a-been vorzook, Wer voun’ a-drown’d in Longmeäd brook. An’ zoo, when he’d a-been all roun’, An’ paid em all their wages down, She us’d to bring vor all, by teäle A cup o’ cider or ov eäle, An’ then a tutty meäde o’ lots O’ blossoms vrom her flower-nots, To wear in bands an’ button-holes At church, an’ in their evenèn strolls. The pea that rangled to the oves, An’ columbines an’ pinks an’ cloves, Sweet rwosen vrom the prickly tree, An’ jilliflow’rs, an’ jessamy; An’ short-liv’d pinies, that do shed Their leaves upon a early bed She didden put in honeyzuck: She’d nwone, she zaid, that she could pluck Avore wild honeyzucks, a-vound In ev’ry hedge ov ev’ry ground. Zoo maïd an’ woman, bwoy an’ man, Went off, while zunzet aïr did fan Their merry zunburnt feäzen; zome Down leäne, an’ zome drough parrocks hwome. Ah! who can tell, that ha’nt a-vound, The sweets o’ week’s-end comèn round! When Zadurday do bring woone’s mind Sweet thoughts o’ Zunday clwose behind; The day that’s all our own to spend Wi’ God an’ wi’ an e’thly friend. The worold’s girt vo’k, wi’ the best O’ wordly goods mid be a-blest; But Zunday is the poor man’s peärt, To seäve his soul an’ cheer his heart.
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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