First Collection. Sundry Pieces. The Music o’ the Dead
When music, in a heart that’s true, Do kindle up wold loves anew, An’ dim wet eyes, in feäirest lights, Do zee but inward fancy’s zights; When creepèn years, wi’ with’rèn blights, ’V a-took off them that wer so dear, How touchèn ’tis if we do hear The tuèns o’ the dead, John. When I, a-stannèn in the lew O’ trees a storm’s a-beätèn drough, Do zee the slantèn mist a-drove By spitevul winds along the grove, An’ hear their hollow sounds above My shelter’d head, do seem, as I Do think o’ zunny days gone by, Lik’ music vor the dead, John. Last night, as I wer gwaïn along The brook, I heard the milk-maïd’s zong A-ringèn out so clear an’ shrill Along the meäds an’ roun’ the hill. I catch’d the tuèn, an’ stood still To hear ’t; ’twer woone that Jeäne did zing A-vield a-milkèn in the spring,— Sweet music o’ the dead, John. Don’t tell o’ zongs that be a-zung By young chaps now, wi’ sheämeless tongue: Zing me wold ditties, that would start The maïden’s tears, or stir my heart To teäke in life a manly peärt,— The wold vo’k’s zongs that twold a teäle, An’ vollow’d round their mugs o’ eäle, The music o’ the dead, John.
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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