Уильям Барнс (William Barnes)

First Collection. Summer. Bees a-Zwarmèn

Avore we went a-milkèn, vive
Or six o’s here wer all alive
A-teäkèn bees that zwarm’d vrom hive;
 An’ we’d sich work to catch
The hummèn rogues, they led us sich
A dance all over hedge an’ ditch;
An’ then at last where should they pitch,
 But up in uncle’s thatch?

Dick rung a sheep-bell in his han’.
Liz beät a cannister, an’ Nan
Did bang the little fryèn-pan
 Wi’ thick an’ thumpèn blows;
An’ Tom went on, a-carrèn roun’
A bee-pot up upon his crown,
Wi’ all his edge a-reachèn down
 Avore his eyes an’ nose.

An’ woone girt bee, wi’ spitevul hum,
Stung Dicky’s lip, an’ meäde it come
All up amost so big’s a plum;
 An’ zome, a-vleèn on,
Got all roun’ Liz, an’ meäde her hop
An’ scream, a-twirlèn lik’ a top,
An’ spring away right backward, flop
 Down into barken pon’:

An’ Nan’ gi’ed Tom a roguish twitch
Upon a bank, an’ meäde en pitch
Right down, head-voremost, into ditch,—
 Tom coulden zee a wink.
An’ when the zwarm wer seäfe an’ sound
In mother’s bit o’ bee-pot ground,
She meäde us up a treat all round
 O’ sillibub to drink.

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