Second Collection. Hallowed Pleäces
At Woodcombe farm, wi’ ground an’ tree Hallow’d by times o’ youthvul glee, At Chris’mas time I spent a night Wi’ feäces dearest to my zight; An’ took my wife to tread, woonce mwore, Her maïden hwome’s vorseäken vloor, An’ under stars that slowly wheel’d Aloft, above the keen-aïr’d vield, While night bedimm’d the rus’lèn copse, An’ darken’d all the ridges’ tops, The hall, a-hung wi’ holly, rung Wi’ many a tongue o’ wold an’ young. There, on the he’th’s well-hetted ground, Hallow’d by times o’ zittèn round, The brimvul mug o’ cider stood An’ hiss’d avore the bleäzèn wood; An’ zome, a-zittèn knee by knee, Did tell their teäles wi’ hearty glee, An’ others gamboll’d in a roar O’ laughter on the stwonèn vloor; An’ while the moss o’ winter-tide Clung chilly roun’ the house’s zide, The hall, a-hung wi’ holly, rung Wi’ many a tongue o’ wold an’ young. There, on the pworches bench o’ stwone, Hallow’d by times o’ youthvul fun, We laugh’d an’ sigh’d to think o’ neämes That rung there woonce, in evenèn geämes; An’ while the swaÿèn cypress bow’d, In chilly wind, his darksome sh’oud An’ honeyzuckles, beäre o’ leäves, Still reach’d the window-sheädèn eaves Up where the clematis did trim The stwonèn arches mossy rim, The hall, a-hung wi’ holly, rung Wi’ many a tongue o’ wold an’ young. There, in the geärden’s wall-bound square, Hallow’d by times o’ strollèn there, The winter wind, a-hufflèn loud, Did swaÿ the pear-tree’s leafless sh’oud, An’ beät the bush that woonce did bear The damask rwose vor Jenny’s heäir; An’ there the walk o’ peävèn stwone That burn’d below the zummer zun. Struck icy-cwold drough shoes a-wore By maïdens vrom the hetted vloor In hall, a-hung wi’ holm, where rung Vull many a tongue o’ wold an’ young. There at the geäte that woonce wer blue Hallow’d by times o’ passèn drough, Light strawmotes rose in flaggèn flight, A-floated by the winds o’ night, Where leafy ivy-stems did crawl In moonlight on the windblown wall, An’ merry maïdens’ vaïces vied In echoes sh’ill, vrom wall to shed, As shiv’rèn in their frocks o’ white They come to bid us there “Good night,” Vrom hall, a-hung wi’ holm, that rung Wi’ many a tongue o’ wold an’ young. There in the narrow leäne an’ drong Hallow’d by times o’ gwaïn along, The lofty ashes’ leafless sh’ouds Rose dark avore the clear-edged clouds, The while the moon, at girtest height, Bespread the pooly brook wi’ light, An’ as our child, in loose-limb’d rest, Lay peäle upon her mother’s breast, Her waxen eyelids seal’d her eyes Vrom darksome trees, an’ sheenèn skies, An’ halls a-hung wi’ holm, that rung Wi’ many a tongue, o’ wold an’ young.
William Barnes’s other poems:
