Уильям Барнс (William Barnes)

Second Collection. Brookwell

Well, I do zay ’tis wo’th woone’s while
To beät the doust a good six mile
To zee the pleäce the squier plann’d
At Brookwell, now a-meäde by hand;
Wi’ oben lawn, an’ grove, an’ pon’,
An’ gravel-walks as clean as bron;
An’ grass a’most so soft to tread
As velvet-pile o’ silken thread;
An’ mounds wi’ mæsh, an’ rocks wi’ flow’rs,
An’ ivy-sheäded zummer bow’rs,
An’ dribblèn water down below
The stwonèn archès lofty bow.
An’ there do sound the watervall
Below a cavern’s mæshy wall,
Where peäle-green light do struggle down
A leafy crevice at the crown.
An’ there do gush the foamy bow
O’ water, white as driven snow;
An’ there, a zittèn all alwone,
A little maïd o’ marble stwone
Do leän her little cheäk azide
Upon her lily han’, an’ bide
Bezide the vallèn stream to zee
Her pitcher vill’d avore her knee.
An’ then the brook, a-rollèn dark
Below a leänèn yew-tree’s bark,
Wi’ plaÿsome ripples that do run
A-flashèn to the western zun,
Do shoot, at last, wi’ foamy shocks,
Athirt a ledge o’ craggy rocks,
A-castèn in his heästy flight,
Upon the stwones a robe o’ white;
An’ then ageän do goo an’ vall
Below a bridge’s archèd wall,
Where vo’k agwaïn athirt do pass
Vow’r little bwoys a-cast in brass;
An’ woone do hold an angler’s wand,
Wi’ steady hand, above the pond;
An’ woone, a-pweïntèn to the stream
His little vinger-tip, do seem
A-showèn to his playmeätes’ eyes,
Where he do zee the vishes rise;
An’ woone ageän, wi’ smilèn lips,
Do put a vish his han’ do clips
’Ithin a basket, loosely tied
About his shoulder at his zide:
An’ after that the fourth do stand
A-holdèn back his pretty hand
Behind his little ear, to drow
A stwone upon the stream below.
An’ then the housèn, that be all
Sich pretty hwomes, vrom big to small,
A-lookèn south, do cluster round
A zunny ledge o’ risèn ground,
Avore a wood, a-nestled warm,
In lewth ageän the northern storm,
Where smoke, a-wreathèn blue, do spread
Above the tuns o’ dusky red,
An’ window-peänes do glitter bright
Wi’ burnèn streams o’ zummer light,
Below the vine, a-traïn’d to hem
Their zides ’ithin his leafy stem,
An’ rangle on, wi’ flutt’rèn leaves,
Below the houses’ thatchen eaves.
An’ drough a lawn a-spread avore
The windows, an’ the pworchèd door,
A path do wind ’ithin a hatch,
A-vastèn’d wi’ a clickèn latch,
An’ there up over ruf an’ tun,
Do stan’ the smooth-wall’d church o’ stwone,
Wi’ carvèd windows, thin an’ tall,
A-reachèn up the lofty wall;
An’ battlements, a-stannèn round
The tower, ninety veet vrom ground,
Vrom where a teäp’rèn speer do spring
So high’s the mornèn lark do zing.
Zoo I do zay ’tis wo’th woone’s while
To beät the doust a good six mile,
To zee the pleäce the squier plann’d
At Brookwell, now a-meäde by hand.

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