Уильям Барнс (William Barnes)

Third Collection. The Hollow Woak

The woaken tree, so hollow now,
 To souls ov other times wer sound,
An’ reach’d on ev’ry zide a bough
 Above their heads, a-gather’d round,
    But zome light veet
    That here did meet
In friendship sweet, vor rest or jaÿ,
Shall be a-miss’d another Maÿ.

My childern here, in plaÿvul pride
 Did zit ’ithin his wooden walls,
A-mentèn steätely vo’k inside
 O’ castle towers an’ lofty halls.
    But now the vloor
    An’ mossy door
That woonce they wore would be too small
To teäke em in, so big an’ tall.

Theäse year do show, wi’ snow-white cloud,
 An’ deäsies in a sprinkled bed,
An’ green-bough birds a-whislèn loud,
 The looks o’ zummer days a-vled;
    An’ grass do grow,
    An’ men do mow,
An’ all do show the wold times’ feäce
Wi’ new things in the wold things’ pleäce.

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