First Collection. Sundry Pieces. The Wold Waggon
The girt wold waggon uncle had, When I wer up a hardish lad, Did stand, a-screen’d vrom het an’ wet, In zummer at the barken geäte, Below the elems’ spreadèn boughs, A-rubb’d by all the pigs an’ cows. An’ I’ve a-clom his head an’ zides, A-riggèn up or jumpèn down A-plaÿèn, or in happy rides Along the leäne or drough the groun’. An’ many souls be in their greäves, That rod’ together on his reäves; An’ he, an’ all the hosses too, ’V a-ben a-done vor years agoo. Upon his head an’ taïl wer pinks, A-païnted all in tangled links; His two long zides wer blue,—his bed Bent slightly upward at the head; His reäves rose upward in a bow Above the slow hind-wheels below. Vour hosses wer a-kept to pull The girt wold waggon when ’twer vull; The black meäre Smiler, strong enough To pull a house down by herzuf, So big, as took my widest strides To straddle halfway down her zides; An’ champèn Vi’let, sprack an’ light, That foam’d an’ pull’d wi’ all her might: An’ Whitevoot, leäzy in the treäce, Wi’ cunnèn looks an’ show-white feäce; Bezides a baÿ woone, short-taïl Jack, That wer a treäce-hoss or a hack. How many lwoads o’ vuzz, to scald The milk, thik waggon have a-haul’d! An’ wood vrom copse, an’ poles vor raïls, An’ bavèns wi’ their bushy taïls; An’ loose-ear’d barley, hangèn down Outzide the wheels a’móst to groun’, An’ lwoads o’ haÿ so sweet an’ dry, A-builded straïght, an’ long, an’ high; An’ haÿ-meäkers, a-zittèn roun’ The reäves, a-ridèn hwome vrom groun’, When Jim gi’ed Jenny’s lips a-smack, An’ jealous Dicky whipp’d his back, An’ maïdens scream’d to veel the thumps A-gi’ed by trenches an’ by humps. But he, an’ all his hosses too, ’V a-ben a-done vor years agoo.
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
939
