Third Collection. Lindenore
At Lindenore upon the steep, Bezide the trees a-reachèn high, The while their lower limbs do zweep The river-stream a-flowèn by; By grægle bells in beds o’ blue, Below the tree-stems in the lew, Calm aïr do vind the rwose-bound door, Ov Ellen Dare o’ Lindenore. An’ there noo foam do hiss avore Swift bwoats, wi’ water-plowèn keels, An’ there noo broad high-road’s a-wore By vur-brought trav’lers’ cracklèn wheels; Noo crowd’s a-passèn to and fro, Upon the bridge’s high-sprung bow: An’ vew but I do seek the door Ov Ellen Dare o’ Lindenore. Vor there the town, wi’ zun-bright walls, Do sheen vur off, by hills o’ grey, An’ town-vo’k ha’ but seldom calls O’ business there, from day to day: But Ellen didden leäve her ruf To be admir’d, an’ that’s enough— Vor I’ve a-vound ’ithin her door, Feäir Ellen Dare o’ Lindenore.
William Barnes’s other poems:
