William Barnes

Second Collection. The Leäne

They do zay that a travellèn chap
 Have a-put in the newspeäper now,
That the bit o’ green ground on the knap
 Should be all a-took in vor the plough.
He do fancy ’tis easy to show
 That we can be but stunpolls at best,
Vor to leave a green spot where a flower can grow,
 Or a voot-weary walker mid rest.
’Tis hedge-grubbèn, Thomas, an’ ledge-grubbèn,
   Never a-done
While a sov’rèn mwore’s to be won.

The road, he do zay, is so wide
 As ’tis wanted vor travellers’ wheels,
As if all that did travel did ride
 An’ did never get galls on their heels.
He would leäve sich a thin strip o’ groun’,
 That, if a man’s veet in his shoes
Wer a-burnèn an’ zore, why he coulden zit down
 But the wheels would run over his tooes.
Vor ’tis meäke money, Thomas, an’ teäke money,
   What’s zwold an’ bought
Is all that is worthy o’ thought.

Years agoo the leäne-zides did bear grass,
 Vor to pull wi’ the geeses’ red bills,
That did hiss at the vo’k that did pass,
 Or the bwoys that pick’d up their white quills.
But shortly, if vower or vive
 Ov our goslèns do creep vrom the agg.
They must mwope in the geärden, mwore dead than alive,
 In a coop, or a-tied by the lag.
Vor to catch at land, Thomas, an’ snatch at land,
   Now is the plan;
Meäke money wherever you can.

The childern wull soon have noo pleäce
 Vor to plaÿ in, an’ if they do grow,
They wull have a thin musheroom feäce,
 Wi’ their bodies so sumple as dough.
But a man is a-meäde ov a child,
 An’ his limbs do grow worksome by plaÿ;
An’ if the young child’s little body’s a-spweil’d,
 Why, the man’s wull the sooner decaÿ.
But wealth is wo’th now mwore than health is wo’th;
   Let it all goo,
If’t ’ull bring but a sov’rèn or two.

Vor to breed the young fox or the heäre,
 We can gi’e up whole eäcres o’ ground,
But the greens be a-grudg’d, vor to rear
 Our young childern up healthy an’ sound,
Why, there woont be a-left the next age
 A green spot where their veet can goo free;
An’ the goocoo wull soon be committed to cage
 Vor a trespass in zomebody’s tree.
Vor ’tis lockèn up, Thomas, an’ blockèn up,
   Stranger or brother,
Men mussen come nigh woone another.

Woone day I went in at a geäte,
 Wi’ my child, where an echo did sound.
An’ the owner come up, an’ did reäte
 Me as if I would car off his ground.
But his vield an’ the grass wer-a-let,
 An’ the damage that he could a-took
Wer at mwost that the while I did open the geäte
 I did rub roun’ the eye on the hook.
But ’tis drevèn out, Thomas, an’ hevèn out.
   Trample noo grounds,
Unless you be after the hounds.

Ah! the Squiër o’ Culver-dell Hall
 Wer as diff’rent as light is vrom dark,
Wi’ zome vo’k that, as evenèn did vall,
 Had a-broke drough long grass in his park;
Vor he went, wi’ a smile, vor to meet
 Wi’ the trespassers while they did pass,
An’ he zaid, “I do fear you’ll catch cwold in your veet,
 You’ve a-walk’d drough so much o’ my grass.”
His mild words, Thomas, cut em like swords, Thomas,
   Newly a-whet,
An’ went vurder wi’ them than a dreat.