WILLIAM BARNES

Born 1801

EVENÈN IN THE VILLAGE

Now the light o' the west is a-turn'd to gloom,
An' the men be at hwome vrom ground;
An' the bells be a-zendèn all down the Coombe
From tower, their mwoansome sound.

An' the wind is still,

An' the house-dogs do bark,

An' the rooks be a-vled to the elems high an' dark, An' the water do roar at mill.

An' the flickerèn light drough the window-peäne Vrom the candle's dull fleäme do shoot,

An' young Jemmy the smith is a-gone down leäne, A-playèn his shrill-vaïced flute.

An' the miller's man

Do zit down at his ease

On the seat that is under the cluster o' trees,

Wi' his pipe an' his cider can.

HAY-CARRÈN

'Tis merry ov a zummer's day,
When vo'k be out a-haulèn hay
Where boughs, a-spread upon the ground,
Do meäke the staddle big an' round;
An' grass do stand in pook, or lie
In long-back'd weäles or parsels, dry.
There I do vind it stir my heart
To hear the frothèn hosses snort,
A-haulèn on, wi' sleek heäir'd hides,
The red-wheel'd waggon's deep-blue zides.
Aye; let me have woone cup o' drink,
An' hear the linky harness clink,
An' then my blood do run so warm,
An' put sich strangth 'ithin my eärm,
That I do long to toss a pick,
A-pitchèn or a-meäkèn rick.

The bwoy is at the hosse's head,
An' up upon the waggon bed
The lwoaders, strong o' eärm do stan',
At head, an' back at taïl, a man,
Wi' skill to build the lwoad upright
An' bind the vwolded corners tight;
An' at each zide ō'm, sprack an' strong,
A pitcher wi' his long-stem'd prong,

Avore the best two women now
A-call'd to reäky after plough.

When I do pitchy, 'tis my pride
Vor Jenny Hine to reäke my zide,
An' zee her fling her reäke, an' reach
So vur, an' teäke in sich a streech;

An' I don't shatter hay, an' meäke
Mwore work than needs vor Jenny's reäke.
I'd sooner zee the weäles' high rows
Lik' hedges up above my nose,

Than have light work myzelf, an' vind
Poor Jeäne a-beät an' left behind;
Vor she would sooner drop down dead,
Than let the pitchers get a-head.

'Tis merry at the rick to zee

How picks do wag, an' hay do vlee.

While woone's unlwoadèn, woone do teäke
The pitches in ; an' zome do meäke
The lofty rick upright an' roun',

An' tread en hard, an' reäke en down,
An' tip en, when the zun do zet,
To shoot a sudden vall o' wet.
An' zoo 'tis merry any day

When vo'k be out a-carrèn hay.

с

THE CLOTE

WATER-LILY

O zummer clote! when the brook's a-glidèn
So slow an' smooth down his zedgy bed,
Upon thy broad leaves so seäfe a-ridèn
The water's top wi' thy yollow head,
By alder's heads, O,

An' bulrush beds, O,

Thou then dost float, goolden zummer clote !

The grey-bough'd withy's a-leänèn lowly
Above the water thy leaves do hide;
The bendèn bulrush, a-swayèn slowly,
Do skirt in zummer thy river's zide;
An' perch in shoals, O,

Do vill the holes, O,

Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote !

Oh! when thy brook-drinkèn flow'r 's a-blowèn,
The burnèn zummer's a-zetten in ;

The time o' greenness, the time o' mowèn,
When in the hay-vield, wi' zunburnt skin,
The vo'k do drink, O,

Upon the brink, O,

Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote !

Wi' eärms a-spreadèn, an' cheäks a-blowèn,
How proud wer I when I vu'st could zwim
Athirt the pleäce where thou bist a-growèn,
Wi' thy long more vrom the bottom dim;
While cows, knee-high, O,

In brook, wer nigh, O,

Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote!

Ov all the brooks drough the meäds a-windèn, Ov all the meäds by a river's brim,

There's nwone so feäir o' my own heart's vindèn,
As where the maïdens do zee thee swim,
An' stan' to teäke, O,

Wi' long-stemm'd reäke, O,

Thy flow'r afloat, goolden zummer clote!

NAIGHBOUR PLAŸMEÄTES

O jay betide the dear wold mill,

My naïghbour playmeätes' happy hwome, Wi' rollen wheel, an' leäpèn foam,

Below the overhangèn hill,

Where, wide an' slow,

The stream did flow,