Third Collection. Pickèn o’ Scroff
Oh! the wood wer a-vell’d in the copse, An’ the moss-bedded primrwose did blow; An’ vrom tall-stemmèd trees’ leafless tops, There did lie but slight sheädes down below. An’ the sky wer a-showèn, in drough By the tree-stems, the deepest o’ blue, Wi’ a light that did vall on an’ off The dry ground, a-strew’d over wi’ scroff. There the hedge that wer leätely so high, Wer a-plush’d, an’ along by the zide, Where the waggon ’d a-haul’d the wood by, There did reach the deep wheelrouts, a-dried. An’ the groun’ wi’ the sticks wer bespread, Zome a-cut off alive, an’ zome dead. An’ vor burnèn, well wo’th reäkèn off, By the childern a-pickèn o’ scroff. In the tree-studded leäze, where the woak Wer a-spreadèn his head out around, There the scrags that the wind had a-broke, Wer a-lyèn about on the ground Or the childern, wi’ little red hands, Wer a-tyèn em up in their bands; Vor noo squier or farmer turn’d off Little childern a-pickèn o’ scroff. There wer woone bloomèn child wi’ a cloak On her shoulders, as green as the ground; An’ another, as gray as the woak, Wi’ a bwoy in a brown frock, a-brown’d. An’ woone got up, in plaÿ, vor to taït, On a woak-limb, a-growèn out straïght. But she soon wer a-taïted down off, By her meätes out a-pickèn o’ scroff. When they childern do grow to staïd vo’k, An’ goo out in the worold, all wide Vrom the copse, an’ the zummerleäze woak, Where at last all their elders ha’ died, They wull then vind it touchèn to bring, To their minds, the sweet springs o’ their spring, Back avore the new vo’k did turn off The poor childern a-pickèn o’ scroff.
William Barnes’s other poems:
