Читать книгу Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect - Barnes William - Страница 34

If mem'ry, when our hope's a-gone,

Could bring us dreams to cheat us on,

Ov happiness our hearts voun' true

In years we come too quickly drough;

What days should come to me, but you,

That burn'd my youthvul cheäks wi' zuns

O' zummer, in my plaÿsome runs

About the woody hollow.

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When evenèn's risèn moon did peep

Down drough the hollow dark an' deep,

Where gigglèn sweethearts meäde their vows

In whispers under waggèn boughs;

When whisslèn bwoys, an' rott'lèn ploughs

Wer still, an' mothers, wi' their thin

Shrill vaïces, call'd their daughters in,

From walkèn in the hollow;

What souls should come avore my zight,

But they that had your zummer light?

The litsome younger woones that smil'd

Wi' comely feäzen now a-spweil'd;

Or wolder vo'k, so wise an' mild,

That I do miss when I do goo

To zee the pleäce, an' walk down drough

The lwonesome woody hollow?

When wrongs an' overbearèn words

Do prick my bleedèn heart lik' swords,

Then I do try, vor Christes seäke,

To think o' you, sweet days! an' meäke

My soul as 'twer when you did weäke

My childhood's eyes, an' when, if spite

Or grief did come, did die at night

In sleep 'ithin the hollow.