Уильям Барнс (William Barnes)

Second Collection. Bleäke’s House

John Bleäke he had a bit o’ ground
Come to en by his mother’s zide;
An’ after that, two hunderd pound
His uncle left en when he died;
“Well now,” cried John, “my mind’s a-bent
To build a house, an’ paÿ noo rent.”
An’ Meäry gi’ed en her consent.
“Do, do,”—the maïdens cried.
“True, true,”—his wife replied.
“Done, done,—a house o’ brick or stwone,”
Cried merry Bleäke o’ Blackmwore.

Then John he call’d vor men o’ skill,
An’ builders answer’d to his call;
An’ met to reckon, each his bill;
Vor vloor an’ window, ruf an’ wall.
An’ woone did mark it on the groun’.
An’ woone did think, an’ scratch his crown,
An’ reckon work, an’ write it down:
“Zoo, zoo,”—woone treädesman cried,
“True, true,”—woone mwore replied.
“Aye, aye,—good work, an’ have good paÿ,”
Cried merry Bleäke o’ Blackmwore.

The work begun, an’ trowels rung,
An’ up the brickèn wall did rise,
An’ up the slantèn refters sprung,
Wi’ busy blows, an’ lusty cries!
An’ woone brought planks to meäke a vloor,
An’ woone did come wi’ durns or door,
An’ woone did zaw, an’ woone did bore.
“Brick, brick,—there down below,
Quick, quick,—why b’ye so slow?”
“Lime, lime,—why we do weäste the time,
Vor merry Bleäke o’ Blackmwore.”

The house wer up vrom groun’ to tun,
An’ thatch’d ageän the raïny sky,
Wi’ windows to the noonday zun,
Where rushy Stour do wander by.
In coo’se he had a pworch to screen
The inside door, when win’s wer keen,
An’ out avore the pworch, a green.
“Here! here!”—the childern cried:
“Dear! dear!”—the wife replied;
“There, there,—the house is perty feäir,”
Cried merry Bleäke o’ Blackmwore.

Then John he ax’d his friends to warm
His house, an’ they, a goodish batch,
Did come alwone, or eärm in eärm,
All roads, a-meäkèn vor his hatch:
An’ there below the clavy beam
The kettle-spout did zing an’ steam;
An’ there wer ceäkes, an’ tea wi’ cream.
“Lo! lo!”—the women cried;
“Ho! ho!”—the men replied;
“Health, health,—attend ye wi’ your wealth,
Good merry Bleäke o’ Blackmwore.”

Then John, a-praïs’d, flung up his crown,
All back a-laughèn in a roar.
They praïs’d his wife, an’ she look’d down
A-simperèn towards the vloor.
Then up they sprung a-dancèn reels,
An’ up went tooes, an’ up went heels,
A-windèn roun’ in knots an’ wheels.
“Brisk, brisk,”—the maidens cried;
“Frisk, frisk,”—the men replied;
“Quick, quick,—there wi’ your fiddle-stick,”
Cried merry Bleäke o’ Blackmwore.

An’ when the morrow’s zun did sheen,
John Bleäke beheld, wi’ jaÿ an’ pride,
His bricèn house, an’ pworch, an’ green.
Above the Stour’s rushy zide.
The zwallows left the lwonesome groves,
To build below the thatchèn oves,
An’ robins come vor crumbs o’ lwoaves:
“Tweet, tweet,”—the birds all cried;
“Sweet, sweet,”—John’s wife replied;
“Dad, dad,”—the childern cried so glad,
To merry Bleäke o’ Blackmwore.

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