First Collection. Winter. The Weepèn Leädy
When, leäte o’ nights, above the green By thik wold house, the moon do sheen, A leädy there, a-hangèn low Her head, ’s a-walkèn to an’ fro In robes so white’s the driven snow, Wi’ woone eärm down, while woone do rest All lily-white athirt the breast O’ thik poor weepèn leädy. The whirlèn wind an’ whis’lèn squall Do sheäke the ivy by the wall, An’ meäke the plyèn tree-tops rock, But never ruffle her white frock; An’ slammèn door an’ rattlèn lock, That in thik empty house do sound, Do never seem to meäke look round Thik ever downcast leädy. A leädy, as the teäle do goo, That woonce liv’d there, an’ lov’d too true, Wer by a young man cast azide. A mother sad, but not a bride; An’ then her father, in his pride An’ anger, offer’d woone o’ two Vull bitter things to undergoo To thik poor weepèn leädy: That she herzelf should leäve his door, To darken it ageän noo mwore; Or that her little plaÿsome chile, A-zent away a thousand mile, Should never meet her eyes to smile An’ plaÿ ageän; till she, in sheäme, Should die an’ leäve a tarnish’d neäme, A sad vorseäken leädy. “Let me be lost,” she cried, “the while I do but know vor my poor chile;” An’ left the hwome ov all her pride, To wander drough the worold wide, Wi’ grief that vew but she ha’ tried: An’ lik’ a flow’r a blow ha’ broke, She wither’d wi’ the deadly stroke, An’ died a weepèn leädy. An’ she do keep a-comèn on To zee her father dead an’ gone, As if her soul could have noo rest Avore her teäry cheäk’s a-prest By his vorgivèn kiss. Zoo blest Be they that can but live in love, An’ vind a pleäce o’ rest above Unlik’ the weepèn leädy.
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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