William Barnes

First Collection. Winter. The Weepèn Leädy

When, leäte o’ nights, above the green
By thik wold house, the moon do sheen,
A leädy there, a-hangèn low
Her head, ’s a-walkèn to an’ fro
In robes so white’s the driven snow,
 Wi’ woone eärm down, while woone do rest
 All lily-white athirt the breast
  O’ thik poor weepèn leädy.

The whirlèn wind an’ whis’lèn squall
Do sheäke the ivy by the wall,
An’ meäke the plyèn tree-tops rock,
But never ruffle her white frock;
An’ slammèn door an’ rattlèn lock,
 That in thik empty house do sound,
 Do never seem to meäke look round
  Thik ever downcast leädy.

A leädy, as the teäle do goo,
That woonce liv’d there, an’ lov’d too true,
Wer by a young man cast azide.
A mother sad, but not a bride;
An’ then her father, in his pride
 An’ anger, offer’d woone o’ two
 Vull bitter things to undergoo
  To thik poor weepèn leädy:

That she herzelf should leäve his door,
To darken it ageän noo mwore;
Or that her little plaÿsome chile,
A-zent away a thousand mile,
Should never meet her eyes to smile
 An’ plaÿ ageän; till she, in sheäme,
 Should die an’ leäve a tarnish’d neäme,
  A sad vorseäken leädy.

“Let me be lost,” she cried, “the while
I do but know vor my poor chile;”
An’ left the hwome ov all her pride,
To wander drough the worold wide,
Wi’ grief that vew but she ha’ tried:
 An’ lik’ a flow’r a blow ha’ broke,
 She wither’d wi’ the deadly stroke,
  An’ died a weepèn leädy.

An’ she do keep a-comèn on
To zee her father dead an’ gone,
As if her soul could have noo rest
Avore her teäry cheäk’s a-prest
By his vorgivèn kiss. Zoo blest
 Be they that can but live in love,
 An’ vind a pleäce o’ rest above
  Unlik’ the weepèn leädy.