First Collection. Winter. Father Come Hwome
Eclogue. John, Wife an’ Child. CHILD. O mother, mother! be the teäties done? Here’s father now a-comèn down the track. Hes got his nitch o’ wood upon his back, An’ such a speäker in en! I’ll be bound, He’s long enough to reach vrom ground Up to the top ov ouer tun; ’Tis jist the very thing vor Jack an’ I To goo a-colepecksèn wi’, by an’ by. WIFE. The teäties must be ready pretty nigh; Do teäke woone up upon the fork’ an’ try. The ceäke upon the vier, too, ’s a-burnèn, I be afeärd: do run an’ zee, an’ turn en. JOHN. Well, mother! here I be woonce mwore, at hwome. WIFE. Ah! I be very glad you be a-come. You be a-tired an’ cwold enough, I s’pose; Zit down an’ rest your bwones, an’ warm your nose. JOHN. Why I be nippy: what is there to eat? WIFE. Your supper’s nearly ready. I’ve a got Some teäties here a-doèn in the pot; I wish wi’ all my heart I had some meat. I got a little ceäke too, here, a-beäken o’n Upon the vier. ’Tis done by this time though. He’s nice an’ moist; vor when I wer a-meäken o’n I stuck some bits ov apple in the dough. CHILD. Well, father; what d’ye think? The pig got out This mornèn; an’ avore we zeed or heärd en, He run about, an’ got out into geärden, An’ routed up the groun’ zoo wi’ his snout! JOHN. Now only think o’ that! You must contrive To keep en in, or else he’ll never thrive. CHILD. An’ father, what d’ye think? I voun’ to-day The nest where thik wold hen ov our’s do lay: ’Twer out in orcha’d hedge, an’ had vive aggs. WIFE. Lo’k there: how wet you got your veet an’ lags! How did ye get in such a pickle, Jahn? JOHN. I broke my hoss, an’ been a-fwo’ced to stan’ All’s day in mud an’ water vor to dig, An’ meäde myzelf so wetshod as a pig. CHILD. Father, teäke off your shoes, then come, and I Will bring your wold woones vor ye, nice an’ dry. WIFE. An’ have ye got much hedgèn mwore to do? JOHN. Enough to last vor dree weeks mwore or zoo. WIFE. An’ when y’ave done the job you be about, D’ye think you’ll have another vound ye out? JOHN. O ees, there’ll be some mwore: vor after that, I got a job o’ trenchèn to goo at; An’ then zome trees to shroud, an’ wood to vell,— Zoo I do hope to rub on pretty well Till zummer time; an’ then I be to cut The wood an’ do the trenchèn by the tut. CHILD. An’ nex’ week, father, I’m a-gwaïn to goo A-pickèn stwones, d’ye know, vor Farmer True. WIFE. An’ little Jack, you know, ’s a-gwaïn to eärn A penny too, a-keepèn birds off corn. JOHN. O brave! What wages do ’e meän to gi’e? WIFE. She dreppence vor a day, an’ twopence he. JOHN. Well, Polly; thou must work a little spracker When thou bist out, or else thou wu’ten pick A dungpot lwoad o’ stwones up very quick. CHILD. Oh! yes I shall. But Jack do want a clacker: An’ father, wull ye teäke an’ cut A stick or two to meäke his hut. JOHN. You wench! why you be always up a-baggèn. I be too tired now to-night, I’m sure, To zet a-doèn any mwore: Zoo I shall goo up out o’ the waÿ o’ the waggon.
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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