Third Collection. The Giants in Treädes
Gramfer’s Feäble. (How the steam engine come about.) Vier, Aïr, E’th, Water, wer a-meäde Good workers, each o’m in his treäde, An’ Aïr an’ Water, wer a-match Vor woone another in a mill; The giant Water at a hatch, An’ Aïr on the windmill hill. Zoo then, when Water had a-meäde Zome money, Aïr begrudg’d his treäde, An’ come by, unaweäres woone night, An’ vound en at his own mill-head, An’ cast upon en, iron-tight, An icy cwoat so stiff as lead. An’ there he wer so good as dead Vor grindèn any corn vor bread. Then Water cried to Vier, “Alack! Look, here be I, so stiff’s a log, Thik fellor Aïr do keep me back Vrom grindèn. I can’t wag a cog. If I, dear Vier, did ever souse Your nimble body on a house, When you wer on your merry pranks Wi’ thatch or refters, beams or planks, Vorgi’e me, do, in pity’s neäme, Vor ’twerden I that wer to bleäme, I never wagg’d, though I be’nt cringèn, Till men did dreve me wi’ their engine. Do zet me free vrom theäse cwold jacket, Vor I myzelf shall never crack it.” “Well come,” cried Vier, “My vo’k ha’ meäde An engine that ’ull work your treäde. If E’th is only in the mood, While I do work, to gi’e me food, I’ll help ye, an’ I’ll meäke your skill A match vor Mister Aïr’s wold mill.” “What food,” cried E’th, “ ’ull suit your bwoard?” “Oh! trust me, I ben’t over nice,” Cried Vier, “an’ I can eat a slice Ov any thing you can avword.” “I’ve lots,” cried E’th, “ov coal an’ wood.” “Ah! that’s the stuff,” cried Vier, “that’s good.” Zoo Vier at woonce to Water cried, “Here, Water, here, you get inside O’ theäse girt bwoiler. Then I’ll show How I can help ye down below, An’ when my work shall woonce begin You’ll be a thousand times so strong, An’ be a thousand times so long An’ big as when you vu’st got in. An’ I wull meäke, as sure as death, Thik fellor Aïr to vind me breath, An’ you shall grind, an’ pull, an’ dreve, An’ zaw, an’ drash, an’ pump, an’ heave, An’ get vrom Aïr, in time, I’ll lay A pound, the drevèn ships at sea.” An’ zoo ’tis good to zee that might Wull help a man a-wrong’d, to right.
William Barnes’s other poems:
