Уильям Барнс (William Barnes)

Second Collection. Wheat

In brown-leav’d Fall the wheat a-left
 ’Ithin its darksome bed,
Where all the creakèn roller’s heft
 Seal’d down its lowly head,
Sprung sheäkèn drough the crumblèn mwold,
 Green-yollow, vrom below,
An’ bent its bleädes, a-glitt’rfen cwold,
 At last in winter snow.
   Zoo luck betide
   The upland zide,
   Where wheat do wride,
   In corn-vields wide,
 By crowns o’ Do’set Downs, O.

An’ while the screamèn bird-bwoy shook
 Wi’ little zun-burnt hand,
His clacker at the bright-wing’d rook,
 About the zeeded land;
His meäster there did come an’ stop
 His bridle-champèn meäre,
Wi’ thankvul heart, to zee his crop
 A-comèn up so feäir.
   As there awhile
   By geäte or stile,
   He gi’ed the chile
   A cheerèn smile,
 By crowns o’ Do’set Downs, O.

At last, wi’ ears o’ darksome red,
 The yollow stalks did ply,
A-swaÿèn slow, so heavy ’s lead,
 In aïr a-blowèn by;
An’ then the busy reapers laid
 In row their russlèn grips,
An’ sheäves, a-leänèn head by head,
 Did meäke the stitches tips.
   Zoo food’s a-vound,
   A-comèn round,
   Vrom zeed in ground,
   To sheäves a-bound,
 By crowns o’ Do’set Downs, O.

An’ now the wheat, in lofty lwoads,
 Above the meäres’ broad backs,
Do ride along the cracklèn rwoads,
 Or dousty waggon-tracks.
An’ there, mid every busy pick,
 Ha’ work enough to do;
An’ where, avore, we built woone rick,
 Mid theäse year gi’e us two;
   Wi’ God our friend,
   An’ wealth to spend,
   Vor zome good end,
   That times mid mend,
 In towns, an’ Do’set Downs, O.

Zoo let the merry thatcher veel
 Fine weather on his brow,
As he, in happy work, do kneel
 Up roun’ the new-built mow,
That now do zwell in sich a size,
 An’ rise to sich a height,
That, oh! the miller’s wistful eyes
 Do sparkle at the zight.
   An’ long mid stand,
   A happy band,
   To till the land,
   Wi’ head an’ hand,
 By crowns o’ Do’set Downs, O.

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