First Collection. Winter. A Ghost
Eclogue.
Jem an’ Dick.
JEM.
This is a darkish evenèn; b’ye a-feärd
O’ zights? Theäse leäne’s a-haunted, I’ve a heärd.
DICK.
No, I be’nt much a-feär’d. If vo’k don’t strive
To over-reach me while they be alive,
I don’t much think the dead wull ha’ the will
To come back here to do me any ill.
An’ I’ve a-been about all night, d’ye know,
Vrom candle-lightèn till the cock did crow;
But never met wi’ nothèn bad enough
To be much wo’se than what I be myzuf;
Though I, lik’ others, have a-heärd vo’k zay
The girt house is a-haunted, night an’ day.
JEM.
Aye; I do mind woone winter ’twer a-zaid
The farmer’s vo’k could hardly sleep a-bed,
They heärd at night such scuffèns an’ such jumpèns,
Such ugly naïses an’ such rottlèn thumpèns.
DICK.
Aye, I do mind I heard his son, young Sammy,
Tell how the chairs did dance an’ doors did slammy;
He stood to it—though zome vo’k woulden heed en—
He didden only hear the ghost, but zeed en;
An’, hang me! if I han’t a’most a-shook,
To hear en tell what ugly sheäpes it took.
Did zometimes come vull six veet high, or higher,
In white, he zaid, wi’ eyes lik’ coals o’ vier;
An’ zometimes, wi’ a feäce so peale as milk,
A smileless leädy, all a-deck’d in silk.
His heäir, he zaid, did use to stand upright,
So stiff’s a bunch o’ rushes, wi’ his fright.
JEM.
An’ then you know that zome’hat is a-zeed
Down there in leäne, an’ over in the meäd,
A-comèn zometimes lik’ a slinkèn hound,
Or rollèn lik’ a vleece along the ground.
An’ woonce, when gramfer wi’ his wold grey meäre
Wer ridèn down the leäne vrom Shroton feäir,
It roll’d so big’s a pack ov wool across
The road just under en, an’ leäm’d his hoss.
DICK.
Aye; did ye ever hear—vo’k zaid ’twer true—
O’ what bevell Jack Hine zome years agoo?
Woone vrosty night, d’ye know, at Chris’mas tide,
Jack, an’ another chap or two bezide,
’D a-been out, zomewhere up at tother end
O’ parish, to a naïghbour’s house to spend
A merry hour, an’ mid a-took a cup
Or two o’ eäle a-keepèn Chris’mas up;
Zoo I do lot ’twer leäte avore the peärty
’D a-burnt their bron out; I do lot, avore
They thought o’ turnèn out o’ door
’Twer mornèn, vor their friendship then wer hearty.
Well; clwose ageän the vootpath that do leäd
Vrom higher parish over withy-meäd,
There’s still a hollow, you do know: they tried there,
In former times, to meäke a cattle-pit,
But gie’d it up, because they coulden get
The water any time to bide there.
Zoo when the merry fellows got
Just overright theäse lwonesome spot,
Jack zeed a girt big house-dog wi’ a collar,
A-stannèn down in thik there hollor.
Lo’k there, he zaid, there’s zome girt dog a-prowlèn:
I’ll just goo down an’ gi’e’n a goodish lick
Or two wi’ theäse here groun’-ash stick,
An’ zend the shaggy rascal hwome a-howlèn.
Zoo there he run, an’ gi’ed en a good whack
Wi’ his girt ashen stick a-thirt his back;
An’, all at woonce, his stick split right all down
In vower pieces; an’ the pieces vled
Out ov his hand all up above his head,
An’ pitch’d in vower corners o’ the groun’.
An’ then he velt his han’ get all so num’,
He coulden veel a vinger or a thum’;
An’ after that his eärm begun to zwell,
An’ in the night a-bed he vound
The skin o’t peelèn off all round.
’Twer near a month avore he got it well
JEM.
That wer yor hettèn ō’n. He should a let en
Alwone d’ye zee: ’twer wicked vor to het en.
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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