Уильям Барнс (William Barnes)

First Collection. Winter. A Bit o’ Fun

We thought you woulden leäve us quite
So soon as what you did last night;
Our fun jist got up to a height
 As you about got hwome.
The friskèn chaps did skip about,
An’ cou’se the maïdens in an’ out,
A-meäkèn such a randy-rout,
 You coulden hear a drum.

An’ Tom, a-springèn after Bet
Blind-vwolded, whizz’d along, an’ het
Poor Grammer’s zide, an’ overzet
 Her chair, at blind-man’s buff;
An’ she, poor soul, as she did vall,
Did show her snags o’ teeth an’ squall,
An’ what, she zaid, wer wo’se than all,
 She shatter’d all her snuff.

An’ Bet, a-hoppèn back vor fear
O’ Tom, struck uncle zomewhere near,
An’ meäde his han’ spill all his beer
 Right down her poll an’ back;
An’ Joe, in middle o’ the din,
Slipt out a bit, an’ soon come in
Wi’ all below his dapper chin
 A-jumpèn in a zack.

An’ in a twinklèn tother chaps
Jist hung en to a crook wi’ straps,
An’ meäde en bear the maïdens’ slaps,
 An’ prickens wi’ a pin.
An’ Jim, a-catchèn Poll, poor chap,
In back-house in the dark, vell slap
Athirt a tub o’ barm,—a trap
 She set to catch en in.

An’ then we zot down out o’ breath,
An’ meäde a circle roun’ the he’th,
A-keepèn up our harmless me’th,
 Till supper wer a-come.
An’ after we’d a-had zome prog,
All tother chaps begun to jog,
Wi’ sticks to lick a thief or dog,
 To zee the maïdens hwome.

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