Second Collection. Brookwell
Well, I do zay ’tis wo’th woone’s while To beät the doust a good six mile To zee the pleäce the squier plann’d At Brookwell, now a-meäde by hand; Wi’ oben lawn, an’ grove, an’ pon’, An’ gravel-walks as clean as bron; An’ grass a’most so soft to tread As velvet-pile o’ silken thread; An’ mounds wi’ mæsh, an’ rocks wi’ flow’rs, An’ ivy-sheäded zummer bow’rs, An’ dribblèn water down below The stwonèn archès lofty bow. An’ there do sound the watervall Below a cavern’s mæshy wall, Where peäle-green light do struggle down A leafy crevice at the crown. An’ there do gush the foamy bow O’ water, white as driven snow; An’ there, a zittèn all alwone, A little maïd o’ marble stwone Do leän her little cheäk azide Upon her lily han’, an’ bide Bezide the vallèn stream to zee Her pitcher vill’d avore her knee. An’ then the brook, a-rollèn dark Below a leänèn yew-tree’s bark, Wi’ plaÿsome ripples that do run A-flashèn to the western zun, Do shoot, at last, wi’ foamy shocks, Athirt a ledge o’ craggy rocks, A-castèn in his heästy flight, Upon the stwones a robe o’ white; An’ then ageän do goo an’ vall Below a bridge’s archèd wall, Where vo’k agwaïn athirt do pass Vow’r little bwoys a-cast in brass; An’ woone do hold an angler’s wand, Wi’ steady hand, above the pond; An’ woone, a-pweïntèn to the stream His little vinger-tip, do seem A-showèn to his playmeätes’ eyes, Where he do zee the vishes rise; An’ woone ageän, wi’ smilèn lips, Do put a vish his han’ do clips ’Ithin a basket, loosely tied About his shoulder at his zide: An’ after that the fourth do stand A-holdèn back his pretty hand Behind his little ear, to drow A stwone upon the stream below. An’ then the housèn, that be all Sich pretty hwomes, vrom big to small, A-lookèn south, do cluster round A zunny ledge o’ risèn ground, Avore a wood, a-nestled warm, In lewth ageän the northern storm, Where smoke, a-wreathèn blue, do spread Above the tuns o’ dusky red, An’ window-peänes do glitter bright Wi’ burnèn streams o’ zummer light, Below the vine, a-traïn’d to hem Their zides ’ithin his leafy stem, An’ rangle on, wi’ flutt’rèn leaves, Below the houses’ thatchen eaves. An’ drough a lawn a-spread avore The windows, an’ the pworchèd door, A path do wind ’ithin a hatch, A-vastèn’d wi’ a clickèn latch, An’ there up over ruf an’ tun, Do stan’ the smooth-wall’d church o’ stwone, Wi’ carvèd windows, thin an’ tall, A-reachèn up the lofty wall; An’ battlements, a-stannèn round The tower, ninety veet vrom ground, Vrom where a teäp’rèn speer do spring So high’s the mornèn lark do zing. Zoo I do zay ’tis wo’th woone’s while To beät the doust a good six mile, To zee the pleäce the squier plann’d At Brookwell, now a-meäde by hand.
William Barnes’s other poems:
