Third Collection. Withstanders
When weakness now do strive wi’ might In struggles ov an e’thly trial, Might mid overcome the right, An’ truth be turn’d by might’s denial; Withstanders we ha’ mwost to feär, If selfishness do wring us here, Be souls a-holdèn in their hand, The might an’ riches o’ the land. But when the wicked, now so strong, Shall stan’ vor judgment, peäle as ashes, By the souls that rued their wrong, Wi’ tears a-hangèn on their lashes— Then withstanders they shall deäre The leäst ov all to meet wi’ there, Mid be the helpless souls that now Below their wrongvul might mid bow. Sweet childern o’ the dead, bereft Ov all their goods by guile an’ forgèn; Souls o’ driven sleäves that left Their weäry limbs a-mark’d by scourgèn; They that God ha’ call’d to die Vor truth ageän the worold’s lie, An’ they that groan’d an’ cried in vaïn, A-bound by foes’ unrighteous chaïn. The maïd that selfish craft led on To sin, an’ left wi’ hope a-blighted; Starvèn workmen, thin an’ wan, Wi’ hopeless leäbour ill requited; Souls a-wrong’d, an’ call’d to vill Wi’ dread, the men that us’d em ill. When might shall yield to right as pliant As a dwarf avore a giant. When there, at last, the good shall glow In starbright bodies lik’ their Seäviour, Vor all their flesh noo mwore mid show, The marks o’ man’s unkind beheäviour: Wi’ speechless tongue, an’ burnèn cheak, The strong shall bow avore the weäk, An’ vind that helplessness, wi’ right, Is strong beyond all e’thly might.
William Barnes’s other poems:
