Уильям Барнс (William Barnes)

First Collection. Summer. The Meäd a-mow’d

When sheädes do vail into ev’ry hollow,
 An’ reach vrom trees half athirt the groun’;
An’ banks an’ walls be a-lookèn yollow,
 That be a-turn’d to the zun gwaïn down;
    Drough haÿ in cock, O,
    We all do vlock, O,
 Along our road vrom the meäd a-mow’d.

An’ when the last swaÿèn lwoad’s a-started
 Up hill so slow to the lofty rick,
Then we so weary but merry-hearted,
 Do shoulder each ō’s a reäke an’ pick,
    Wi’ empty flagon,
    Behind the waggon,
 To teäke our road vrom the meäd a-mow’d.

When church is out, an’ we all so slowly
 About the knap be a-spreadèn wide.
How gaÿ the paths be where we do strolly
 Along the leäne an’ the hedge’s zide;
    But nwone’s a voun’, O,
    Up hill or down, O,
 So gaÿ’s the road drough the meäd a-mow’d.

An’ when the visher do come, a-drowèn
 His flutt’ren line over bleädy zedge,
Drough groun’s wi’ red thissle-heads a-blowèn.
 An’ watchèn o’t by the water’s edge;
    Then he do love, O,
    The best to rove, O,
 Along his road drough the meäd a-mow’d.

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