Second Collection. Good Meäster Collins
Aye, Meäster Collins wer a-blest Wi’ greäce, an’ now’s a-gone to rest; An’ though his heart did beät so meek ’S a little child’s, when he did speak, The godly wisdom ov his tongue Wer dew o’ greäce to wold an’ young. ’Twer woonce, upon a zummer’s tide, I zot at Brookwell by his zide, Avore the leäke, upon the rocks, Above the water’s idle shocks, As little plaÿsome weäves did zwim Ageän the water’s windy brim. Out where the lofty tower o’ stwone Did stan’ to years o’ wind an’ zun; An’ where the zwellèn pillars bore A pworch above the heavy door, Wi’ sister sheädes a-reachèn cool Athirt the stwones an’ sparklèn pool. I spoke zome word that meäde en smile, O’ girt vo’k’s wealth an’ poor vo’k’s tweil, As if I pin’d, vor want ov greäce, To have a lord’s or squier’s pleäce. “No, no,” he zaid, “what God do zend Is best vor all o’s in the end, An’ all that we do need the mwost Do come to us wi’ leäst o’ cost;— Why, who could live upon the e’th ’Ithout God’s gïft ov aïr vor breath? Or who could bide below the zun If water didden rise an’ run? An’ who could work below the skies If zun an’ moon did never rise? Zoo aïr an’ water, an’ the light, Be higher gifts, a-reckon’d right, Than all the goold the darksome claÿ Can ever yield to zunny daÿ: But then the aïr is roun’ our heads, Abroad by day, or on our beds; Where land do gi’e us room to bide, Or seas do spread vor ships to ride; An’ He do zend his waters free, Vrom clouds to lands, vrom lands to sea; An’ mornèn light do blush an’ glow, ’Ithout our tweil—’ithout our ho. “Zoo let us never pine, in sin, Vor gifts that ben’t the best to win; The heaps o’ goold that zome mid pile, Wi’ sleepless nights an’ peaceless tweil; Or manor that mid reach so wide As Blackmwore is vrom zide to zide, Or kingly swaÿ, wi’ life or death, Vor helpless childern ov the e’th: Vor theäse ben’t gifts, as He do know, That He in love should vu’st bestow; Or else we should have had our sheäre O’m all wi’ little tweil or ceäre. “Ov all His choicest gifts, His cry Is, ‘Come, ye moneyless, and buy.’ Zoo blest is he that can but lift His praÿer vor a happy gift.”
William Barnes’s other poems:
