Уильям Барнс (William Barnes)

Second Collection. The Wold vo’k Dead

My days, wi’ wold vo’k all but gone,
An’ childern now a-comèn on,
Do bring me still my mother’s smiles
In light that now do show my chile’s;
An’ I’ve a-sheär’d the wold vo’ks’ me’th,
Avore the burnèn Chris’mas he’th,
At friendly bwoards, where feäce by feäce,
Did, year by year, gi’e up its pleäce,
An’ leäve me here, behind, to tread
The ground a-trod by wold vo’k dead.

But wold things be a-lost vor new,
An’ zome do come, while zome do goo;
As wither’d beech-tree leaves do cling
Among the nesh young buds o’ Spring;
An’ frettèn worms ha’ slowly wound,
Droo beams the wold vo’k lifted sound,
An’ trees they planted little slips
Ha’ stems that noo two eärms can clips;
An’ grey an’ yollow moss do spread
On buildèns new to wold vo’k dead.

The backs of all our zilv’ry hills,
The brook that still do dreve our mills,
The roads a-climèn up the brows
O’ knaps, a-screen’d by meäple boughs,
War all a-mark’d in sheäde an’ light
Avore our wolder fathers’ zight,
In zunny days, a-gied their hands
For happy work, a-tillèn lands,
That now do yield their childern bread
Till they do rest wi’ wold vo’k dead.

But livèn vo’k, a-grievfen on,
Wi’ lwonesome love, vor souls a-gone,
Do zee their goodness, but do vind
All else a-stealèn out o’ mind;
As air do meäke the vurthest land
Look feäirer than the vield at hand,
An’ zoo, as time do slowly pass,
So still’s a sheäde upon the grass,
Its wid’nèn speäce do slowly shed
A glory roun’ the wold vo’k dead.

An’ what if good vo’ks’ life o’ breath
Is zoo a-hallow’d after death,
That they mid only know above,
Their times o’ faith, an’ jaÿ, an’ love,
While all the evil time ha’ brought
’S a-lost vor ever out o’ thought;
As all the moon that idden bright,
’S a-lost in darkness out o’ zight;
And all the godly life they led
Is glory to the wold vo’k dead.

If things be zoo, an’ souls above
Can only mind our e’thly love,
Why then they’ll veel our kindness drown
The thoughts ov all that meäde em frown.
An’ jaÿ o’ jaÿs will dry the tear
O’ sadness that do trickle here,
An’ nothèn mwore o’ life than love,
An’ peace, will then be know’d above.
Do good, vor that, when life’s a-vled,
Is still a pleasure to the dead.

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