Second Collection. The Waggon a-stooded
Dree o’m a-ta’kèn o’t. (1) Well, here we be, then, wi’ the vu’st poor lwoad O’ vuzz we brought, a-stoodèd in the road. (2) The road, George, no. There’s na’r a road. That’s wrong. If we’d a road, we mid ha’ got along. (1) Noo road! Ees ’tis, the road that we do goo. (2) Do goo, George, no. The pleäce we can’t get drough. (1) Well, there, the vu’st lwoad we ’ve a-haul’d to day Is here a-stoodèd in theäse bed o’ clay. Here’s rotten groun’! an’ how the wheels do cut! The little woone’s a-zunk up to the nut. (3) An’ yeet this rotten groun’ don’t reach a lug. (1) Well, come, then, gi’e the plow another tug. (2) They meäres wull never pull the waggon out, A-lwoaded, an a-stoodèd in thik rout. (3) We’ll try. Come, Smiler, come! C’ up, Whitevoot, gee! (2) White-voot wi’ lags all over mud! Hee! Hee! (3) ’Twoon’t wag. We shall but snap our gear, An’ overstraïn the meäres. ’Twoon’t wag, ’tis clear. (1) That’s your work, William. No, in coo’se, ’twoon’t wag. Why did ye drēve en into theäse here quag? The vore-wheels be a-zunk above the nuts. (3) What then? I coulden leäve the beäten track, To turn the waggon over on the back Ov woone o’ theäsem wheel-high emmet-butts. If you be sich a drēver, an’ do know’t, You drēve the plow, then; but you’ll overdrow ’t. (1) I drēve the plow, indeed! Oh! ees, what, now The wheels woont wag, then, I mid drēve the plow! We’d better dig away the groun’ below The wheels. (2) There’s na’r a speäde to dig wi’. (1) An’ teäke an’ cut a lock o’ frith, an’ drow Upon the clay. (2) Nor hook to cut a twig wi’. (1) Oh! here’s a bwoy a-comèn. Here, my lad, Dost know vor a’r a speäde, that can be had? (B) At father’s, (1) Well, where’s that? (Bwoy) At Sam’el Riddick’s. (1) Well run, an’ ax vor woone. Fling up your heels, An’ mind: a speäde to dig out theäsem wheels, An’ hook to cut a little lock o’ widdicks. (3) Why, we shall want zix ho’ses, or a dozen, To pull the waggon out, wi’ all theäse vuzzen. (1) Well, we mus’ lighten en; come, Jeämes, then, hop Upon the lwoad, an’ jus’ fling off the top. (2) If I can clim’ en; but ’tis my consaït, That I shall overzet en wi’ my waïght. (1) You overzet en! No, Jeämes, he won’t vall. The lwoad’s a-built so firm as any wall. (2) Here! lend a hand or shoulder vor my knee Or voot. I’ll scramble to the top an’ zee What I can do. Well, here I be, among The fakkets, vor a bit, but not vor long. Heigh, George! Ha! ha! Why this wull never stand. Your firm ’s a wall, is all so loose as zand; ’Tis all a-come to pieces. Oh! Teäke ceäre! Ho! I’m a-vallèn, vuzz an’ all! Haë! There! (1) Lo’k there, thik fellor is a-vell lik’ lead. An’ half the fuzzen wi ’n, heels over head! There’s all the vuzz a-lyèn lik’ a staddle, An’ he a-deäb’d wi’ mud. Oh! Here’s a caddle! (3) An’ zoo you soon got down zome vuzzen, Jimmy. (2) Ees, I do know ’tis down, I brought it wi’ me. (3) Your lwoad, George, wer a rather slick-built thing, But there, ’twer prickly vor the hands! Did sting? (1) Oh! ees, d’ye teäke me vor a nincompoop, No, no. The lwoad wer up so firm ’s a rock, But two o’ theäsem emmet-butts would knock The tightest barrel nearly out o’ hoop. (3) Oh! now then, here’s the bwoy a-bringèn back The speäde. Well done, my man. That idder slack. (2) Well done, my lad, sha’t have a ho’se to ride When thou’st a meäre. (Bwoy) Next never’s-tide. (3) Now let’s dig out a spit or two O’ clay, a-vore the little wheels; Oh! so’s, I can’t pull up my heels, I be a-stogg’d up over shoe. (1) Come, William, dig away! Why you do spuddle A’most so weak’s a child. How you do muddle! Gi’e me the speäde a-bit. A pig would rout It out a’most so nimbly wi’ his snout. (3) Oh! so’s, d’ye hear it, then. How we can thunder! How big we be, then George! what next I wonder? (1) Now, William, gi’e the waggon woone mwore twitch, The wheels be free, an’ ’tis a lighter nitch. (3) Come, Smiler, gee! C’up, White-voot. (1) That wull do (2) Do wag. (1) Do goo at last. (3) Well done. ’Tis drough. (1) Now, William, till you have mwore ho’ses’ lags, Don’t drēve the waggon into theäsem quags. (3) You build your lwoads up tight enough to ride. (1) I can’t do less, d’ye know, wi’ you vor guide.
William Barnes’s other poems:
