Third Collection. The Child’s Greäve
Avore the time when zuns went down On zummer’s green a-turn’d to brown, When sheädes o’ swaÿèn wheat-eärs vell Upon the scarlet pimpernel; The while you still mid goo, an’ vind ’Ithin the geärden’s mossy wall, Sweet blossoms, low or risèn tall, To meäke a tutty to your mind, In churchyard heav’d, wi’ grassy breast, The greäve-mound ov a beäby’s rest. An’ when a high day broke, to call A throng ’ithin the churchyard wall, The mother brought, wi’ thoughtvul mind, The feäirest buds her eyes could vind, To trim the little greäve, an’ show To other souls her love an’ loss, An’ meäde a Seävior’s little cross O’ brightest flow’rs that then did blow, A-droppèn tears a-sheenèn bright, Among the dew, in mornèn light. An’ woone sweet bud her han’ did pleäce Up where did droop the Seävior’s feäce; An’ two she zet a-bloomèn bright, Where reach’d His hands o’ left an’ right; Two mwore feäir blossoms, crimson dyed, Did mark the pleäces ov his veet, An’ woone did lie, a-smellèn sweet, Up where the spear did wound the zide Ov Him that is the life ov all Greäve sleepers, whether big or small. The mother that in faïth could zee The Seävior on the high cross tree Mid be a-vound a-grievèn sore, But not to grieve vor evermwore, Vor He shall show her faïthvul mind, His chaïce is all that she should choose, An’ love that here do grieve to lose, Shall be, above, a jaÿ to vind, Wi’ Him that evermwore shall keep The souls that He do lay asleep.
William Barnes’s other poems:
