Уильям Барнс (William Barnes)

Third Collection. Fall

Now the yollow zun, a-runnèn
 Daily round a smaller bow,
Still wi’ cloudless sky’s a-zunnèn
 All the sheenèn land below.
 Vewer blossoms now do blow,
But the fruit’s a-showèn
 Reds an’ blues, an’ purple hues,
By the leaves a-glowèn.

Now the childern be a-pryèn
 Roun’ the berried bremble-bow,
Zome a-laughèn, woone a-cryèn
 Vor the slent her frock do show.
 Bwoys be out a-pullèn low
Slooe-boughs, or a-runnèn
 Where, on zides of hazzle-wrides,
Nuts do hang a-zunnèn.

Where do reach roun’ wheat-ricks yollow
 Oves o’ thatch, in long-drawn ring,
There, by stubbly hump an’ hollow,
 Russet-dappled dogs do spring.
 Soon my apple-trees wull fling
Bloomèn balls below em,
 That shall hide, on ev’ry zide
Ground where we do drow em.

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