William Barnes (Уильям Барнс)

First Collection. Sundry Pieces. The Hwomestead a-vell into Hand

The house where I wer born an’ bred,
 Did own his woaken door, John,
When vu’st he shelter’d father’s head,
 An’ gramfer’s long avore, John.
An’ many a ramblèn happy chile,
 An’ chap so strong an’ bwold,
An’ bloomèn maïd wi’ plaÿsome smile,
 Did call their hwome o’ wold
   Thik ruf so warm,
   A kept vrom harm
By elem trees that broke the storm.

An’ in the orcha’d out behind,
 The apple-trees in row, John,
Did swaÿ wi’ moss about their rind
 Their heads a-noddèn low, John.
An’ there, bezide zome groun’ vor corn,
 Two strips did skirt the road;
In woone the cow did toss her horn,
 While tother wer a-mow’d,
   In June, below
   The lofty row
Ov trees that in the hedge did grow.

A-workèn in our little patch
 O’ parrock, rathe or leäte, John,
We little ho’d how vur mid stratch
 The squier’s wide esteäte, John.
Our hearts, so honest an’ so true,
 Had little vor to fear;
Vor we could paÿ up all their due,
 An’ gi’e a friend good cheer
   At hwome, below
   The lofty row
O’ trees a-swaÿèn to an’ fro.

An’ there in het, an’ there in wet,
 We tweil’d wi’ busy hands, John;
Vor ev’ry stroke o’ work we het,
 Did better our own lands, John.
But after me, ov all my kin,
 Not woone can hold em on;
Vor we can’t get a life put in
 Vor mine, when I’m a-gone
   Vrom thik wold brown
   Thatch ruf, a-boun’
By elem trees a-growèn roun’.

Ov eight good hwomes, where, I can mind
 Vo’k liv’d upon their land, John,
But dree be now a-left behind;
 The rest ha’ vell in hand, John,
An’ all the happy souls they ved
 Be scatter’d vur an’ wide.
An’ zome o’m be a-wantèn bread,
 Zome, better off, ha’ died,
   Noo mwore to ho,
   Vor homes below
The trees a-swaÿen to an’ fro.

An’ I could leäd ye now all round
 The parish, if I would, John,
An’ show ye still the very ground
 Where vive good housen stood, John,
In broken orcha’ds near the spot,
 A vew wold trees do stand;
But dew do vall where vo’k woonce zot
 About the burnèn brand
   In housen warm,
   A-kept vrom harm
By elems that did break the storm.

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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