First Collection. Summer. Woodley
Sweet Woodley! oh! how fresh an’ gaÿ Thy leänes an’ vields be now in Maÿ, The while the broad-leav’d clotes do zwim In brooks wi’ gil’cups at the brim; An’ yollow cowslip-beds do grow By thorns in blooth so white as snow; An’ win’ do come vrom copse wi’ smells O’ grægles wi’ their hangèn bells! Though time do dreve me on, my mind Do turn in love to thee behind, The seäme’s a bulrush that’s a-shook By wind a-blowèn up the brook: The curlèn stream would dreve en down, But plaÿsome aïr do turn en roun’, An’ meäke en seem to bend wi’ love To zunny hollows up above. Thy tower still do overlook The woody knaps an’ windèn brook, An’ leäne’s wi’ here an’ there a hatch, An’ house wi’ elem-sheäded thatch, An’ vields where chaps do vur outdo The Zunday sky, wi’ cwoats o’ blue; An’ maïdens’ frocks do vur surpass The whitest deäsies in the grass. What peals to-day from thy wold tow’r Do strike upon the zummer flow’r, As all the club, wi’ dousty lags, Do walk wi’ poles an’ flappèn flags, An’ wind, to music, roun’ between A zwarm o’ vo’k upon the green! Though time do dreve me on, my mind Do turn wi’ love to thee behind.
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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