Уильям Барнс (William Barnes)

Third Collection. Pity

Good Meäster Collins! aye, how mild he spoke
Woone day o’ Mercy to zome cruel vo’k.
“No, no. Have Mercy on a helpless head,
An’ don’t be cruel to a zoul,’ he zaid.
“When Babylon’s king woonce cast ’ithin
 The viery furnace, in his spite,
The vetter’d souls whose only sin
 Wer praÿer to the God o’ might,
He vound a fourth, ’ithout a neäme,
A-walkèn wi’ em in the fleäme.
An’ zoo, whenever we mid hurt,
 Vrom spite, or vrom disdaïn,
A brother’s soul, or meäke en smert
 Wi’ keen an’ needless païn,
Another that we midden know
Is always wi’ en in his woe.
Vor you do know our Lord ha’ cried,
“By faïth my bretheren do bide
In me the livèn vine,
 As branches in a livèn tree;
Whatever you’ve a-done to mine
 Is all a-done to me.
Oh! when the new-born child, the e’th’s new guest,
Do lie an’ heave his little breast,
In pillow’d sleep, wi’ sweetest breath
O’ sinless days drough rwosy lips a-drawn;
Then, if a han’ can smite en in his dawn
O’ life to darksome death,
Oh! where can Pity ever vwold
 Her wings o’ swiftness vrom their holy flight,
To leäve a heart o’ flesh an’ blood so cwold
 At such a touchèn zight?
An’ zoo mid meek-soul’d Pity still
Be zent to check our evil will,
An’ keep the helpless soul from woe,
 An’ hold the hardened heart vrom sin,
Vor they that can but mercy show
 Shall all their Father’s mercy win.”

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