William Barnes

Second Collection. Our Be’thplace

How dear’s the door a latch do shut,
An’ geärden that a hatch do shut,
Where vu’st our bloomèn cheäks ha’ prest
The pillor ov our childhood’s rest;
Or where, wi’ little tooes, we wore
The paths our fathers trod avore;
Or clim’d the timber’s bark aloft,
Below the zingèn lark aloft,
The while we heärd the echo sound
Drough all the ringèn valley round.

A lwonesome grove o’ woak did rise,
To screen our house, where smoke did rise,
A-twistèn blue, while yeet the zun
Did langthen on our childhood’s fun;
An’ there, wi’ all the sheäpes an’ sounds
O’ life, among the timber’d grounds,
The birds upon their boughs did zing,
An’ milkmaïds by their cows did zing,
Wi’ merry sounds, that softly died,
A-ringẁn down the valley zide.

By river banks, wi’ reeds a-bound,
An’ sheenèn pools, wi’ weeds a-bound,
The long-neck’d gander’s ruddy bill
To snow-white geese did cackle sh’ill;
An’ stridèn peewits heästen’d by,
O’ tiptooe wi’ their screamèn cry;
An’ stalkèn cows a-lowèn loud,
An’ struttèn cocks a-crowèn loud,
Did rouse the echoes up to mock
Their mingled sounds by hill an’ rock.

The stars that clim’d our skies all dark,
Above our sleepèn eyes all dark,
An’ zuns a-rollèn round to bring
The seasons on, vrom Spring to Spring,
Ha’ vled, wi’ never-restèn flight,
Drough green-bough’d day, an’ dark-tree’d night;
Till now our childhood’s pleäces there,
Be gaÿ wi’ other feäces there,
An’ we ourselves do vollow on
Our own vorelivers dead an’ gone.