Poem by William Barnes

First Collection. Sundry Pieces. The Music o’ the Dead

When music, in a heart that’s true,
Do kindle up wold loves anew,
An’ dim wet eyes, in feäirest lights,
Do zee but inward fancy’s zights;
When creepèn years, wi’ with’rèn blights,
 ’V a-took off them that wer so dear,
 How touchèn ’tis if we do hear
  The tuèns o’ the dead, John.

When I, a-stannèn in the lew
O’ trees a storm’s a-beätèn drough,
Do zee the slantèn mist a-drove
By spitevul winds along the grove,
An’ hear their hollow sounds above
 My shelter’d head, do seem, as I
 Do think o’ zunny days gone by,
  Lik’ music vor the dead, John.

Last night, as I wer gwaïn along
The brook, I heard the milk-maïd’s zong
A-ringèn out so clear an’ shrill
Along the meäds an’ roun’ the hill.
I catch’d the tuèn, an’ stood still
 To hear ’t; ’twer woone that Jeäne did zing
 A-vield a-milkèn in the spring,—
  Sweet music o’ the dead, John.

Don’t tell o’ zongs that be a-zung
By young chaps now, wi’ sheämeless tongue:
Zing me wold ditties, that would start
The maïden’s tears, or stir my heart
To teäke in life a manly peärt,—
 The wold vo’k’s zongs that twold a teäle,
 An’ vollow’d round their mugs o’ eäle,
  The music o’ the dead, John.

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. I know Who
5. Third Collection. Went vrom Hwome

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