First Collection. Winter. Fanny’s Be’th-day
How merry, wi’ the cider cup, We kept poor Fanny’s be’th-day up! An’ how our busy tongues did run An’ hands did wag, a-meäkèn fun! What plaÿsome anticks zome ō’s done! An’ how, a-reelèn roun’ an’ roun’, We beät the merry tuèn down, While music wer a-soundèn! The maïdens’ eyes o’ black an’ blue Did glisten lik’ the mornèn dew; An’ while the cider-mug did stand A-hissèn by the bleäzèn brand, An’ uncle’s pipe wer in his hand, How little he or we did think How peäle the zettèn stars did blink While music wer a-soundèn. An’ Fanny’s last young teen begun, Poor maïd, wi’ thik day’s risèn zun, An’ we all wish’d her many mwore Long years wi’ happiness in store; An’ as she went an’ stood avore The vier, by her father’s zide, Her mother dropp’d a tear o’ pride While music wer a-soundèn. An’ then we did all kinds o’ tricks Wi’ han’kerchiefs, an’ strings, an’ sticks: An’ woone did try to overmatch Another wi’ zome cunnèn catch, While tothers slyly tried to hatch Zome geäme; but yet, by chap an’ maïd, The dancèn wer the mwost injaÿ’d, While music wer a-soundèn. The briskest chap ov all the lot Wer Tom, that danc’d hizzelf so hot, He doff’d his cwoat an’ jump’d about, Wi’ girt new shirt-sleeves all a-strout, Among the maïdens screamèn out, A-thinkèn, wi’ his strides an’ stamps, He’d squot their veet wi’ his girt clamps, While music wer a-soundèn. Then up jump’d uncle vrom his chair, An’ pull’d out aunt to meäke a peäir; An’ off he zet upon his tooe. So light’s the best that beät a shoe, Wi’ aunt a-crièn “Let me goo:” While all ov us did laugh so loud, We drown’d the tuèn o’ the croud, While music wer a-soundèn. A-comèn out o’ passage, Nan, Wi’ pipes an’ cider in her han’, An’ watchèn uncle up so sprack, Vorgot her veet, an’ vell down smack Athirt the house-dog’s shaggy back, That wer in passage vor a snooze, Beyond the reach o’ dancers’ shoes, While music wer a-soundèn.
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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