Poem by William Barnes

First Collection. Summer. The Meäd a-mow’d

When sheädes do vail into ev’ry hollow,
 An’ reach vrom trees half athirt the groun’;
An’ banks an’ walls be a-lookèn yollow,
 That be a-turn’d to the zun gwaïn down;
    Drough haÿ in cock, O,
    We all do vlock, O,
 Along our road vrom the meäd a-mow’d.

An’ when the last swaÿèn lwoad’s a-started
 Up hill so slow to the lofty rick,
Then we so weary but merry-hearted,
 Do shoulder each ō’s a reäke an’ pick,
    Wi’ empty flagon,
    Behind the waggon,
 To teäke our road vrom the meäd a-mow’d.

When church is out, an’ we all so slowly
 About the knap be a-spreadèn wide.
How gaÿ the paths be where we do strolly
 Along the leäne an’ the hedge’s zide;
    But nwone’s a voun’, O,
    Up hill or down, O,
 So gaÿ’s the road drough the meäd a-mow’d.

An’ when the visher do come, a-drowèn
 His flutt’ren line over bleädy zedge,
Drough groun’s wi’ red thissle-heads a-blowèn.
 An’ watchèn o’t by the water’s edge;
    Then he do love, O,
    The best to rove, O,
 Along his road drough the meäd a-mow’d.

1. Second Collection. The Linden on the Lawn
2. Second Collection. When Birds be Still
3. First Collection. Summer. Week’s End in Zummer, in the Wold Vo’k’s Time
4. Second Collection. The Lydlinch Bells
5. Third Collection. The Wheel Routs

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