First Collection. Winter. A Bit o’ Fun
We thought you woulden leäve us quite So soon as what you did last night; Our fun jist got up to a height As you about got hwome. The friskèn chaps did skip about, An’ cou’se the maïdens in an’ out, A-meäkèn such a randy-rout, You coulden hear a drum. An’ Tom, a-springèn after Bet Blind-vwolded, whizz’d along, an’ het Poor Grammer’s zide, an’ overzet Her chair, at blind-man’s buff; An’ she, poor soul, as she did vall, Did show her snags o’ teeth an’ squall, An’ what, she zaid, wer wo’se than all, She shatter’d all her snuff. An’ Bet, a-hoppèn back vor fear O’ Tom, struck uncle zomewhere near, An’ meäde his han’ spill all his beer Right down her poll an’ back; An’ Joe, in middle o’ the din, Slipt out a bit, an’ soon come in Wi’ all below his dapper chin A-jumpèn in a zack. An’ in a twinklèn tother chaps Jist hung en to a crook wi’ straps, An’ meäde en bear the maïdens’ slaps, An’ prickens wi’ a pin. An’ Jim, a-catchèn Poll, poor chap, In back-house in the dark, vell slap Athirt a tub o’ barm,—a trap She set to catch en in. An’ then we zot down out o’ breath, An’ meäde a circle roun’ the he’th, A-keepèn up our harmless me’th, Till supper wer a-come. An’ after we’d a-had zome prog, All tother chaps begun to jog, Wi’ sticks to lick a thief or dog, To zee the maïdens hwome.
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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