Second Collection. A Father out an’ Mother Hwome
The snow-white clouds did float on high In shoals avore the sheenèn sky, An’ runnèn weäves in pon’ did cheäse Each other on the water’s feäce, As hufflèn win’ did blow between The new-leav’d boughs o’ sheenèn green. An’ there, the while I walked along The path, drough leäze, above the drong, A little maïd, wi’ bloomèn feäce, Went on up hill wi’ nimble peäce, A-leänèn to the right-han’ zide, To car a basket that did ride, A-hangèn down, wi’ all his heft, Upon her elbow at her left. An’ yet she hardly seem’d to bruise The grass-bleädes wi’ her tiny shoes, That pass’d each other, left an’ right, In steps a’most too quick vor zight. But she’d a-left her mother’s door A-bearèn vrom her little store Her father’s welcome bit o’ food, Vhere he wer out at work in wood; An’ she wer bless’d wi’ mwore than zwome— A father out, an’ mother hwome. An’ there, a-vell’d ’ithin the copse, Below the timber’s new-leav’d tops, Wer ashèn poles, a-castèn straïght, On primrwose beds, their langthy waïght; Below the yollow light, a-shed Drough boughs upon the vi’let’s head, By climèn ivy, that did reach, A sheenèn roun’ the dead-leav’d beech. An’ there her father zot, an’ meäde His hwomely meal bezide a gleäde; While she, a-croopèn down to ground, Did pull the flowers, where she vound The droopèn vi’let out in blooth, Or yollow primrwose in the lewth, That she mid car em proudly back, An’ zet em on her mother’s tack; Vor she wer bless’d wi’ mwore than zwome— A father out, an’ mother hwome. A father out, an’ mother hwome, Be blessèns soon a-lost by zome; A-lost by me, an’ zoo I pray’d They mid be speär’d the little maïd.
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
963
