Уильям Барнс (William Barnes)

Third Collection. Withstanders

When weakness now do strive wi’ might
 In struggles ov an e’thly trial,
Might mid overcome the right,
 An’ truth be turn’d by might’s denial;
Withstanders we ha’ mwost to feär,
If selfishness do wring us here,
Be souls a-holdèn in their hand,
The might an’ riches o’ the land.

But when the wicked, now so strong,
 Shall stan’ vor judgment, peäle as ashes,
By the souls that rued their wrong,
 Wi’ tears a-hangèn on their lashes—
Then withstanders they shall deäre
The leäst ov all to meet wi’ there,
Mid be the helpless souls that now
Below their wrongvul might mid bow.

Sweet childern o’ the dead, bereft
 Ov all their goods by guile an’ forgèn;
Souls o’ driven sleäves that left
 Their weäry limbs a-mark’d by scourgèn;
They that God ha’ call’d to die
Vor truth ageän the worold’s lie,
An’ they that groan’d an’ cried in vaïn,
A-bound by foes’ unrighteous chaïn.

The maïd that selfish craft led on
 To sin, an’ left wi’ hope a-blighted;
Starvèn workmen, thin an’ wan,
 Wi’ hopeless leäbour ill requited;
Souls a-wrong’d, an’ call’d to vill
Wi’ dread, the men that us’d em ill.
When might shall yield to right as pliant
As a dwarf avore a giant.

When there, at last, the good shall glow
 In starbright bodies lik’ their Seäviour,
Vor all their flesh noo mwore mid show,
 The marks o’ man’s unkind beheäviour:
Wi’ speechless tongue, an’ burnèn cheak,
The strong shall bow avore the weäk,
An’ vind that helplessness, wi’ right,
Is strong beyond all e’thly might.

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