William Barnes

First Collection. Sundry Pieces. The Shep’erd Bwoy

When the warm zummer breeze do blow over the hill,
 An’ the vlock ’s a-spread over the ground;
When the vaïce o’ the busy wold sheep dog is still,
 An’ the sheep-bells do tinkle all round;
 Where noo tree vor a sheäde but the thorn is a-vound,
   There, a zingèn a zong,
   Or a-whislèn among
The sheep, the young shep’erd do bide all day long.

When the storm do come up wi’ a thundery cloud
 That do shut out the zunlight, an’ high
Over head the wild thunder do rumble so loud,
 An’ the lightnèn do flash vrom the sky,
 Where noo shelter’s a-vound but his hut, that is nigh,
   There out ov all harm,
   In the dry an’ the warm,
The poor little shep’erd do smile at the storm.

When the cwold winter win’ do blow over the hill,
 An’ the hore-vrost do whiten the grass,
An’ the breath o’ the no’th is so cwold, as to chill
 The warm blood ov woone’s heart as do pass;
 When the ice o’ the pond is so slipp’ry as glass,
   There, a-zingèn a zong,
   Or a-whislèn among
The sheep, the poor shep’erd do bide all day long.

When the shearèn’s a-come, an’ the shearers do pull
 In the sheep, hangèn back a-gwaïn in,
Wi’ their roun’ zides a-heavèn in under their wool,
 To come out all a-clipp’d to the skin;
 When the feästèn, an’ zingèn, an fun do begin,
   Vor to help em, an’ sheäre
   All their me’th an’ good feäre,
The poor little shep’erd is sure to be there.