My Fore-Elders
When from the child, that still is led
By hand, a father's hand is gone, ---
Or when a few-year'd mother dead
Has left her children growing on, ---
When men have left their children staid,
And they again have boy and maid, ---
O, can they know, as years may roll,
Their children's children, soul by soul?
If this with souls in heaven can be,
Do my fore-elders know of me?
My elders' elders, man and wife,
Were borne full early to the tomb,
With children still in childhood life
To play with butterfly or bloom.
And did they see the seasons mould
Their faces on, from young to old,
As years might bring them, turn by turn,
A time to laugh or time to mourn?
If this with souls in heaven can be,
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poem by William Barnes
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Wife A-Lost, The
Since I noo mwore do zee your fe{"a}ce,
Up ste{"a}rs or down below,
I'll zit me in the lwonesome ple{"a}ce,
Where flat-bough'd beech do grow;
Below the beeches' bough, my love,
Where you did never come,
An' I don't look to meet ye now,
As I do look at hwome.
Since you noo mwore be at my zide,
In walks in zummer het,
I'll goo alwone where mist do ride,
Drough trees a-drippèn wet;
Below the ra{"i}n-wet bough, my love,
Where you did never come,
An' I don't grieve to miss ye now,
As I do grieve at hwome.
Since now bezide my dinner-bwoard
Your va{"i}ce do never sound,
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poem by William Barnes
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The Spring
When wintry weather's all a-done,
An' brooks do sparkle in the zun,
An' naisy-builden rooks do vlee
Wi' sticks toward their elem tree;
When birds do zing, an' we can zee
Upon the boughs the buds o' spring, -
Then I'm as happy as a king,
A-vield wi' health an' zunsheen.
Vor then the cowlsip's hangen flower
A-wetted in the zunny shower,
Do grow wi' vi'lets, sweet o' smell,
Bezide the wood-screened graegle's bell;
Where drushes' aggs, wi' sky-blue shell,
Do lie in mossy nest among
The thorns, while they do zing their zong
At evenen in the zunsheen.
An' God do meake his win' to blow
An' rain to vall vor high an' low,
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poem by William Barnes
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The Surprise
As there I left the road in May,
And took my way along a ground,
I found a glade with girls at play,
By leafy boughs close-hemmed around,
And there, with stores of harmless joys,
They plied their tongues, in merry noise:
Though little did they seem to fear
So queer a stranger might be near;
Teeh-hee! Look here! Hah! ha! Look there!
And oh! so playsome, oh! so fair.
And one would dance as one would spring,
Or bob or bow with leering smiles,
And one would swing, or sit and sing,
Or sew a stitch or two at whiles,
And one skipped on with downcast face,
All heedless, to my very place,
And there, in fright, with one foot out,
Made one dead step and turned about.
Heeh, hee, oh! oh! ooh! oo!—Look there!
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poem by William Barnes
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The Turnstile
Ah! sad wer we as we did peace
the wold church road, wi' downcast feace,
the while the bells, that mwoaned so deep
above our child a-left asleep,
wer now a-zingen all alive
wi' t'other bells to meake the vive.
But up at woone pleace we come by,
t'wer hard to keep woone's two eyes dry-
on Stean-cliff road, 'ithin the drong,
up where, as vo'k do pass along,
the turnen stile, a-painted 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' spreaden arms that wheeled to guide
us each in turn to t'other zide.
An' vu'st ov all the train he took
my wife, wi' winsome gait an' look:
An' then zent on my little maid,
a-skippen onward, overjay'd
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poem by William Barnes
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The Geate A-Vallen To
In the zunsheen of our zummers
Wi’ the hay time now a-come,
How busy wer we out a-vield
Wi’ vew a-left at hwome,
When waggons rumbled out ov yard
Red wheeled, wi’ body blue,
And back behind ‘em loudly slamm’d
The geate a’vallen to.
Drough daysheen ov how many years
The geate ha’ now a-swung
Behind the veet o’ vull-grown men
And vootsteps of the young.
Drough years o’ days it swung to us
Behind each little shoe,
As we tripped lightly on avore
The geate a-vallen to.
In evenen time o’ starry night
How mother zot at hwome,
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poem by William Barnes
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The Child an' the Mowers
O AYE! they had woone child bezide,
An' a finer your eyes never met,
Twer a dear little fellow that died
In the summer that come wi' such het;
By the mowers, too thoughtless in fun,
He wer then a-zent off vrom our eyes,
Vrom the light ov the dew-dryen zun,-
Aye! vrom days under the blue-hollow'd skies.
He went out to the mowers in meade,
When the zun wer a-rose to his height,
An' the men wer a-swingen the snead,
Wi' their earms in white sleeves, left an' right;
An' out there, as they rested at noon,
O! they drench'd en vrom eale-horns too deep,
Till his thoughts wer a-drown'd in a swoon;
Aye! his life wer a-smother'd in sleep.
Then they laid en there-right on the ground,
On a grass-heap, a-zweltren wi'het,
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poem by William Barnes
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Woak Hill
When sycamore leaves wer a-spreadèn
Green-ruddy in hedges,
Bezide the red doust o' the ridges,
A-dried at Woak Hill;
I packed up my goods all a sheenèn
Wi' long years o' handlèn,
On dousty red wheel ov a waggon,
To ride at Woak Hill.
The brown thatchen ruf o' the dwellèn,
I then wer a-le{'a}vèn,
Had shelter'd the sleek head o' Me{'a}ry,
My bride at Woak Hill.
But now vor zome years, her light voot-vall
'S a-lost vrom the vloorèn.
Too soon vor my ja{'y} an' my childern,
She died at Woak Hill.
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poem by William Barnes
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Blackmwore Maidens
THE PRIMRWOSE in the shade do blow,
The cowslip in the zun,
The thyme upon the down do grow,
The clote where streams do run;
An’ where do pretty maidens grow
An’ blow, but where the tow’r
Do rise among the bricken tuns,
In Blackmwore by the Stour.
If you could zee their comely gait,
An’ pretty faces’ smiles,
A-trippen on so light o’ waight,
An’ steppen off the stiles;
A-gwain to church, as bells do swing
An’ ring ’ithin the tow’r,
You’d own the pretty maidens’ place
Is Blackmwore by the Stour.
If you vrom Wimborne took your road,
To Stower or Paladore,
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poem by William Barnes
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Vull a Man
No, I’m a man, I’m vull a man,
You beat my manhood, if you can.
You’ll be a man if you can teake
All steates that household life do meake.
The love-toss’d child, a-croodlen loud,
The bwoy a-screamen wild in play,
The tall grown youth a-steppen proud,
The father staid, the house’s stay.
No ; I can boast if others can,
I’m vull a man.
A young-cheak’d mother’s tears mid vall,
When woone a-lost, not half man-tall,
Vrom little hand, a-called vrom play,
Do leave noo tool, but drop a tay,
An’ die avore he’s father-free
To sheape his life by his own plan;
An’ vull an angel he shall be,
But here on e’th not vull a man,
No; I could boast if others can,
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poem by William Barnes
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