Second Collection. Our Be’thplace
How dear’s the door a latch do shut, An’ geärden that a hatch do shut, Where vu’st our bloomèn cheäks ha’ prest The pillor ov our childhood’s rest; Or where, wi’ little tooes, we wore The paths our fathers trod avore; Or clim’d the timber’s bark aloft, Below the zingèn lark aloft, The while we heärd the echo sound Drough all the ringèn valley round. A lwonesome grove o’ woak did rise, To screen our house, where smoke did rise, A-twistèn blue, while yeet the zun Did langthen on our childhood’s fun; An’ there, wi’ all the sheäpes an’ sounds O’ life, among the timber’d grounds, The birds upon their boughs did zing, An’ milkmaïds by their cows did zing, Wi’ merry sounds, that softly died, A-ringẁn down the valley zide. By river banks, wi’ reeds a-bound, An’ sheenèn pools, wi’ weeds a-bound, The long-neck’d gander’s ruddy bill To snow-white geese did cackle sh’ill; An’ stridèn peewits heästen’d by, O’ tiptooe wi’ their screamèn cry; An’ stalkèn cows a-lowèn loud, An’ struttèn cocks a-crowèn loud, Did rouse the echoes up to mock Their mingled sounds by hill an’ rock. The stars that clim’d our skies all dark, Above our sleepèn eyes all dark, An’ zuns a-rollèn round to bring The seasons on, vrom Spring to Spring, Ha’ vled, wi’ never-restèn flight, Drough green-bough’d day, an’ dark-tree’d night; Till now our childhood’s pleäces there, Be gaÿ wi’ other feäces there, An’ we ourselves do vollow on Our own vorelivers dead an’ gone.
William Barnes’s other poems:
