Second Collection. Knowlwood
I don’t want to sleep abrode, John, I do like my hwomeward road, John; An’ like the sound o’ Knowlwood bells the best. Zome would rove vrom pleäce to pleäce, John, Zome would goo from feäce to feäce, John, But I be happy in my hwomely nest; An’ slight’s the hope vor any pleäce bezide, To leäve the plain abode where love do bide. Where the shelvèn knap do vall, John, Under trees a-springèn tall, John; ’Tis there my house do show his sheenèn zide, Wi’ his walls vor ever green, John, Under ivy that’s a screen, John, Vrom wet an’ het, an’ ev’ry changèn tide, An’ I do little ho vor goold or pride, To leäve the plaïn abode where love do bide. There the bendèn stream do flow, John, By the mossy bridge’s bow, John; An’ there the road do wind below the hill; There the miller, white wi’ meal, John, Deafen’d wi’ his foamy wheel, John, Do stan’ o’ times a-lookèn out o’ mill: The while ’ithin his lightly-sheäken door, His wheatèn flour do whitèn all his floor. When my daily work’s a-done, John, At the zettèn o’ the zun, John, An’ I all day ’ve a-plaÿ’d a good man’s peärt, I do vind my ease a-blest, John, While my conscience is at rest, John; An’ while noo worm’s a-left to fret my heart; An’ who vor finer hwomes o’ restless pride, Would pass the plaïn abode where peace do bide? By a windor in the west, John, There upon my fiddle’s breast, John, The strings do sound below my bow’s white heäir; While a zingèn drush do swaÿ, John, Up an’ down upon a spraÿ, John, An’ cast his sheäde upon the window square; Vor birds do know their friends, an’ build their nest, An’ love to roost, where they can live at rest. Out o’ town the win’ do bring, John, Peals o’ bells when they do ring, John, An’ roun’ me here, at hand, my ear can catch The maïd a-zingèn by the stream, John, Or carter whislèn wi’ his team, John, Or zingèn birds, or water at the hatch; An’ zoo wi’ sounds o’ vaïce, an’ bird an’ bell, Noo hour is dull ’ithin our rwosy dell. An’ when the darksome night do hide, John, Land an’ wood on ev’ry zide, John; An’ when the light’s a-burnèn on my bwoard, Then vor pleasures out o’ door, John, I’ve enough upon my vloor, John: My Jenny’s lovèn deed, an’ look, an’ word, An’ we be lwoth, lik’ culvers zide by zide, To leave the plaïn abode where love do bide.
William Barnes’s other poems:
