English Poetry. William Barnes. First Collection. Winter. The Settle an’ the Girt Wood Vire. Уильям Барнс.

William Barnes (Уильям Барнс)

First Collection. Winter. The Settle an’ the Girt Wood Vire

Ah! naïghbour John, since I an’ you
Wer youngsters, ev’ry thing is new.
My father’s vires wer all o’ logs
O’ cleft-wood, down upon the dogs
Below our clavy, high, an’ brode
Enough to teäke a cart an’ lwoad,
Where big an’ little all zot down
At bwoth zides, an’ bevore, all roun’.
An’ when I zot among em, I
Could zee all up ageän the sky
Drough chimney, where our vo’k did hitch
The zalt-box an’ the beäcon-vlitch,
An’ watch the smoke on out o’ vier,
All up an’ out o’ tun, an’ higher.
An’ there wer beäcon up on rack,
An’ pleätes an’ dishes on the tack;
An’ roun’ the walls wer heärbs a-stowed
In peäpern bags, an’ blathers blowed.
An’ just above the clavy-bwoard
Wer father’s spurs, an’ gun, an’ sword;
An’ there wer then, our girtest pride,
The settle by the vier zide.
 Ah! gi’e me, if I wer a squier,
 The settle an’ the girt wood vier.

But they’ve a-wall’d up now wi’ bricks
The vier pleäce vor dogs an’ sticks,
An’ only left a little hole
To teäke a little greäte o’ coal,
So small that only twos or drees
Can jist push in an’ warm their knees.
An’ then the carpets they do use,
Bēn’t fit to tread wi’ ouer shoes;
An’ chairs an’ couches be so neat,
You mussen teäke em vor a seat:
They be so fine, that vo’k mus’ pleäce
All over em an’ outer ceäse,
An’ then the cover, when ’tis on,
Is still too fine to loll upon.
 Ah! gi’e me, if I wer a squier,
 The settle an’ the girt wood vier.

Carpets, indeed! You coulden hurt
The stwone-vloor wi’ a little dirt;
Vor what wer brought in doors by men,
The women soon mopp’d out ageän.
Zoo we did come vrom muck an’ mire,
An’ walk in straïght avore the vier;
But now, a man’s a-kept at door
At work a pirty while, avore
He’s screäp’d an’ rubb’d, an’ cleän and fit
To goo in where his wife do zit.
An’ then if he should have a whiff
In there, ’twould only breed a miff:
He cānt smoke there, vor smoke woon’t goo
’Ithin the footy little flue.
 Ah! gi’e me, if I wer a squier,
 The settle an’ the girt wood vier.

William Barnes’s other poems:

1. Third Collection. Comen Hwome
2. Second Collection. Slow to come, quick agone
3. Second Collection. John Bleäke at Hwome
4. Third Collection. Things do Come Round
5. Third Collection. I’m out o’ Door

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