First Collection. Winter. Woak wer Good Enough Woonce
Ees: now mahogany’s the goo. An’ good wold English woak won’t do. I wish vo’k always mid avvword Hot meals upon a woakèn bwoard. As good as thik that took my cup An’ trencher all my growèn up. Ah! I do mind en in the hall, A-reachèn all along the wall, Wi’ us at father’s end, while tother Did teäke the mäidens wi’ their mother, An’ while the risèn steam did spread In curlèn clouds up over head, Our mouths did wag, an’ tongues did run, To meäke the maïdens laugh o’ fun. A woaken bedstead, black an’ bright, Did teäke my weary bwones at night, Where I could stratch an’ roll about Wi’ little fear o’ vallèn out; An’ up above my head a peäir Ov ugly heads a-carv’d did steäre, An’ grin avore a bright vull moon A’most enough to frighten woone. An’ then we had, vor cwoats an’ frocks, Woak cwoffers wi’ their rusty locks An’ neämes in nails, a-left behind By kinsvo’k dead an’ out o’ mind; Zoo we did get on well enough Wi’ things a-meäde ov English stuff. But then, you know, a woaken stick Wer cheap, vor woaken trees war thick. When poor wold Gramfer Green wer young, He zaid a squirrel mid a-sprung Along the dell, vrom tree to tree, Vrom Woodcomb all the way to Lea; An’ woak wer all vo’k did avvword, Avore his time, vor bed or bwoard.
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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