Third Collection. Fall
Now the yollow zun, a-runnèn Daily round a smaller bow, Still wi’ cloudless sky’s a-zunnèn All the sheenèn land below. Vewer blossoms now do blow, But the fruit’s a-showèn Reds an’ blues, an’ purple hues, By the leaves a-glowèn. Now the childern be a-pryèn Roun’ the berried bremble-bow, Zome a-laughèn, woone a-cryèn Vor the slent her frock do show. Bwoys be out a-pullèn low Slooe-boughs, or a-runnèn Where, on zides of hazzle-wrides, Nuts do hang a-zunnèn. Where do reach roun’ wheat-ricks yollow Oves o’ thatch, in long-drawn ring, There, by stubbly hump an’ hollow, Russet-dappled dogs do spring. Soon my apple-trees wull fling Bloomèn balls below em, That shall hide, on ev’ry zide Ground where we do drow em.
William Barnes’s other poems:
