Poem by William Barnes

First Collection. Winter. A Bit o’ Fun

We thought you woulden leäve us quite
So soon as what you did last night;
Our fun jist got up to a height
 As you about got hwome.
The friskèn chaps did skip about,
An’ cou’se the maïdens in an’ out,
A-meäkèn such a randy-rout,
 You coulden hear a drum.

An’ Tom, a-springèn after Bet
Blind-vwolded, whizz’d along, an’ het
Poor Grammer’s zide, an’ overzet
 Her chair, at blind-man’s buff;
An’ she, poor soul, as she did vall,
Did show her snags o’ teeth an’ squall,
An’ what, she zaid, wer wo’se than all,
 She shatter’d all her snuff.

An’ Bet, a-hoppèn back vor fear
O’ Tom, struck uncle zomewhere near,
An’ meäde his han’ spill all his beer
 Right down her poll an’ back;
An’ Joe, in middle o’ the din,
Slipt out a bit, an’ soon come in
Wi’ all below his dapper chin
 A-jumpèn in a zack.

An’ in a twinklèn tother chaps
Jist hung en to a crook wi’ straps,
An’ meäde en bear the maïdens’ slaps,
 An’ prickens wi’ a pin.
An’ Jim, a-catchèn Poll, poor chap,
In back-house in the dark, vell slap
Athirt a tub o’ barm,—a trap
 She set to catch en in.

An’ then we zot down out o’ breath,
An’ meäde a circle roun’ the he’th,
A-keepèn up our harmless me’th,
 Till supper wer a-come.
An’ after we’d a-had zome prog,
All tother chaps begun to jog,
Wi’ sticks to lick a thief or dog,
 To zee the maïdens hwome.

1. First Collection. Summer. Week’s End in Zummer, in the Wold Vo’k’s Time
2. Second Collection. The Linden on the Lawn
3. Second Collection. When Birds be Still
4. Third Collection. Went vrom Hwome
5. Third Collection. Shaftesbury Feäir

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