Third Collection. The Hollow Woak
The woaken tree, so hollow now, To souls ov other times wer sound, An’ reach’d on ev’ry zide a bough Above their heads, a-gather’d round, But zome light veet That here did meet In friendship sweet, vor rest or jaÿ, Shall be a-miss’d another Maÿ. My childern here, in plaÿvul pride Did zit ’ithin his wooden walls, A-mentèn steätely vo’k inside O’ castle towers an’ lofty halls. But now the vloor An’ mossy door That woonce they wore would be too small To teäke em in, so big an’ tall. Theäse year do show, wi’ snow-white cloud, An’ deäsies in a sprinkled bed, An’ green-bough birds a-whislèn loud, The looks o’ zummer days a-vled; An’ grass do grow, An’ men do mow, An’ all do show the wold times’ feäce Wi’ new things in the wold things’ pleäce.
William Barnes’s other poems:
