First Collection. Winter. The Vrost
Come, run up hwome wi’ us to night, Athirt the vield a-vroze so white, Where vrosty sheädes do lie below The winter ricks a-tipp’d wi’ snow, An’ lively birds, wi’ waggèn taïls, Do hop upon the icy raïls. An’ rime do whiten all the tops O’ bush an’ tree in hedge an’ copse, In wind’s a-cuttèn keen. Come, maïdens, come: the groun’s a-vroze Too hard to-night to spweil your clothes. You got noo pools to waddle drough, Nor clay a-pullèn off your shoe: An’ we can trig ye at the zide, To keep ye up if you do slide: Zoo while there’s neither wet nor mud, ’S the time to run an’ warm your blood, In winds a-cuttèn keen. Vor young men’s hearts an’ maïden’s eyes Don’t vreeze below the cwoldest skies, While they in twice so keen a blast Can wag their brisk lim’s twice so vast! Though vier-light, a-flick’rèn red Drough vrosty window-peänes, do spread Vrom wall to wall, vrom he’th to door, Vor us to goo an’ zit avore, Vrom winds a-cuttèn keen.
William Barnes’s other poems:
- Third Collection. Comen Hwome
- Second Collection. Slow to come, quick agone
- Second Collection. John Bleäke at Hwome
- Third Collection. Things do Come Round
- Third Collection. I’m out o’ Door
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