Уильям Барнс (William Barnes)

Third Collection. Blessens a-left

Lik’ souls a-toss’d at sea I bore
 Sad strokes o’ trial, shock by shock,
An’ now, lik’ souls a-cast ashore
 To rest upon the beäten rock,
I still do seem to hear the sound
O’ weäves that drove me vrom my track,
An’ zee my strugglèn hopes a-drown’d,
An’ all my jaÿs a-floated back.
By storms a-toss’d, I’ll gi’e God praïse,
Wi’ much a-lost I still ha’ jaÿs.
My peace is rest, my faïth is hope,
An’ freedom’s my unbounded scope.

Vor faïth mid blunt the sting o’ fear.
 An’ peace the pangs ov ills a-vound,
An’ freedom vlee vrom evils near,
 Wi’ wings to vwold on other ground.
Wi’ much a-lost, my loss is small,
Vor though ov e’thly goods bereft,
A thousand times well worth em all
Be they good blessèns now a-left.
What e’th do own, to e’th mid vall,
But what’s my own my own I’ll call,
My faïth, an’ peace, the gifts o’ greäce,
An’ freedom still to shift my pleäce.

When I’ve a-had a tree to screen
 My meal-rest vrom the high zunn’d-sky,
Or ivy-holdèn wall between
 My head an’ win’s a-rustlèn by,
I had noo call vor han’s to bring
Their seäv’ry daïnties at my nod,
But stoop’d a-drinkèn vrom the spring,
An’ took my meal, wi’ thanks to God,
Wi’ faïth to keep me free o’ dread,
An’ peäce to sleep wi’ steadvast head,
An’ freedom’s hands, an’ veet unbound
To woone man’s work, or woone seäme ground.

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