Уильям Барнс (William Barnes)

Third Collection. The Wheel Routs

’Tis true I brought noo fortune hwome
 Wi’ Jenny, vor her honey-moon,
But still a goodish hansel come
 Behind her perty soon,
Vor stick, an’ dish, an’ spoon, all vell
To Jeäne, vrom Aunt o’ Camwy dell.

Zoo all the lot o’ stuff a-tied
 Upon the plow, a tidy tod,
On gravel-crunchèn wheels did ride,
 Wi’ ho’ses, iron-shod,
That, as their heads did nod, my whip
Did guide along wi’ lightsome flip.

An’ there it rod ’ithin the rwope,
 Astraïn’d athirt, an’ straïn’d along,
Down Thornhay’s evenèn-lighted slope
 An’ up the beech-tree drong;
Where wheels a-bound so strong, cut out
On either zide a deep-zunk rout.

An’ when at Fall the trees wer brown,
 Above the bennet-bearèn land,
When beech-leaves slowly whiver’d down,
 By evenèn winds a-fann’d;
The routs wer each a band o’ red,
A-vill’d by drifted beech-leaves dead.

An’ when, in Winter’s leafless light,
 The keener eastern wind did blow,
An’ scatter down, avore my zight,
 A chilly cwoat o’ snow;
The routs ageän did show vull bright,
In two long streaks o’ glitt’rèn white.

But when, upon our weddèn night,
 The cart’s light wheels, a-rollèn round,
Brought Jenny hwome, they run too light
 To mark the yieldèn ground;
Or welcome would be vound a peäir
O’ green-vill’d routs a-runnèn there.

Zoo let me never bring ’ithin
 My dwellèn what’s a-won by wrong,
An’ can’t come in ’ithout a sin;
 Vor only zee how long
The waggon marks in drong, did show
Wi’ leaves, wi’ grass, wi’ groun’ wi’ snow.

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