William Barnes

Second Collection. Pentridge by the River

Pentridge!—oh! my heart’s a-zwellèn
Vull o’ jaÿ wi’ vo’k a-tellèn
 Any news o’ thik wold pleäce,
An’ the boughy hedges round it,
An’ the river that do bound it
 Wi’ his dark but glis’nèn feäce.
Vor there’s noo land, on either hand,
To me lik’ Pentridge by the river.

Be there any leaves to quiver
On the aspen by the river?
 Doo he sheäde the water still,
Where the rushes be a-growèn,
Where the sullen Stour’s a-flowèn
 Drough the meäds vrom mill to mill?
Vor if a tree wer dear to me,
Oh! ’twer thik aspen by the river.

There, in eegrass new a-shootèn,
I did run on even vootèn,
 Happy, over new-mow’d land;
Or did zing wi’ zingèn drushes
While I plaïted, out o’ rushes,
 Little baskets vor my hand;
Bezide the clote that there did float,
Wi’ yollow blossoms, on the river.

When the western zun’s a vallèn,
What sh’ill vaïce is now a-callèn
 Hwome the deaïry to the païls;
Who do dreve em on, a-flingèn
Wide-bow’d horns, or slowly zwingèn
 Right an’ left their tufty taïls?
As they do goo a-huddled drough
The geäte a-leädèn up vrom river.

Bleäded grass is now a-shootèn
Where the vloor wer woonce our vootèn,
 While the hall wer still in pleäce.
Stwones be looser in the wallèn;
Hollow trees be nearer vallèn;
 Ev’ry thing ha’ chang’d its feäce.
But still the neäme do bide the seäme—
’Tis Pentridge—Pentridge by the river.