Third Collection. The Lark
As I, below the mornèn sky, Wer out a workèn in the lew O’ black-stemm’d thorns, a-springèn high, Avore the worold-boundèn blue, A-reäkèn, under woak tree boughs, The orts a-left behin’ by cows. Above the grey-grow’d thistle rings, An’ deäisy-buds, the lark, in flight, Did zing a-loft, wi’ flappèn wings, Tho’ mwore in heärèn than in zight; The while my bwoys, in plaÿvul me’th. Did run till they wer out o’ breath. Then woone, wi’ han’-besheäded eyes, A-stoppèn still, as he did run, Look’d up to zee the lark arise A-zingèn to the high-gone zun; The while his brother look’d below Vor what the groun’ mid have to show. Zoo woone did watch above his head The bird his hands could never teäke; An’ woone, below, where he did tread, Vound out the nest within the breäke; But, aggs be only woonce a-vound, An’ uncaught larks ageän mid sound.
William Barnes’s other poems:
