Third Collection. The Turnstile
Ah! sad wer we as we did peäce The wold church road, wi’ downcast feäce, The while the bells, that mwoan’d so deep Above our child a-left asleep, Wer now a-zingèn all alive Wi’ tother bells to meäke the vive. But up at woone pleäce we come by, ’Twer hard to keep woone’s two eyes dry: On Steän-cliff road, ’ithin the drong, Up where, as vo’k do pass along, The turnèn stile, a-païnted white, Do sheen by day an’ show by night. Vor always there, as we did goo To church, thik stile did let us drough, Wi’ spreadèn eärms that wheel’d to guide Us each in turn to tother zide. An’ vu’st ov all the traïn he took My wife, wi’ winsome gaït an’ look; An’ then zent on my little maïd, A-skippèn onward, overjaÿ’d To reach ageän the pleäce o’ pride, Her comely mother’s left han’ zide. An’ then, a-wheelèn roun’, he took On me, ’ithin his third white nook. An’ in the fourth, a-sheäkèn wild, He zent us on our giddy child. But eesterday he guided slow My downcast Jenny, vull o’ woe, An’ then my little maïd in black, A-walkèn softly on her track; An’ after he’d a-turn’d ageän, To let me goo along the leäne, He had noo little bwoy to vill His last white eärms, an’ they stood still.
William Barnes’s other poems:
