William Barnes

Third Collection. Tweil

The rick ov our last zummer’s haulèn
 Now vrom grey’s a-feäded dark,
An’ off the barken raïl’s a-vallèn,
 Day by day, the rottèn bark.—
But short’s the time our works do stand,
So feäir’s we put em out ov hand.
Vor time a-passèn, wet an’ dry,
Do spweïl em wi’ his changèn sky,
The while wi’ strivèn hope, we men,
 Though a-ruèn time’s undoèn,
Still do tweil an’ tweil ageän.

In wall-zide sheädes, by leafy bowers,
 Underneath the swaÿèn tree,
O’ leäte, as round the bloomèn flowers,
 Lowly humm’d the giddy bee,
My childern’s small left voot did smite
Their tiny speäde, the while the right
Did trample on a deäisy head,
Bezïde the flower’s dousty bed,
An’ though their work wer idle then,
 They a-smilèn, an’ a-tweilèn,
Still did work an’ work ageän.

Now their little limbs be stronger,
 Deeper now their vaïce do sound;
An’ their little veet be longer,
 An’ do tread on other ground;
An’ rust is on the little bleädes
 Ov all the broken-hafted speädes,
An’ flow’rs that wer my hope an’ pride
Ha’ long agoo a-bloom’d an’ died,
But still as I did leäbor then
 Vor love ov all them childern small,
Zoo now I’ll tweil an’ tweil ageän.

When the smokeless tun’s a-growèn
 Cwold as dew below the stars,
An’ when the vier noo mwore’s a-glowèn
 Red between the window bars,
We then do laÿ our weary heads
In peace upon their nightly beds,
An’ gi’e woone sock, wi’ heavèn breast,
An’ then breathe soft the breath o’ rest,
Till day do call the sons o’ men
 Vrom night-sleep’s blackness, vull o’ sprackness,
Out abroad to tweil ageän.

Where the vaïce o’ the winds is mildest,
 In the plaïn, their stroke is keen;
Where their dreatnèn vaïce is wildest,
 In the grove, the grove’s our screen.
An’ where the worold in their strife
Do dreatèn mwost our tweilsome life,
Why there Almighty ceäre mid cast
A better screen ageän the blast.
Zoo I woon’t live in fear o’ men,
 But, man-neglected, God-directed,
Still wull tweil an’ tweil ageän.