Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect by William Barnes. First Collection. Fourth Edition |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
THE VAICES THAT BE GONE. |
 | Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect |  |
177
THE VAICES THAT BE GONE.
When evenèn sheädes o' trees do hide
A body by the hedge's zide,
An' twitt'rèn birds, wi' plaÿsome flight,
Do vlee to roost at comèn night,
Then I do saunter out o' zight
In orcha'd, where the pleäce woonce rung
Wi' laughs a-raïsed an' zongs a-zung
By vaïces that be gone.
A body by the hedge's zide,
An' twitt'rèn birds, wi' plaÿsome flight,
Do vlee to roost at comèn night,
Then I do saunter out o' zight
In orcha'd, where the pleäce woonce rung
Wi' laughs a-raïsed an' zongs a-zung
By vaïces that be gone.
There's still the tree that bore our swing,
An' others where the birds did zing;
But long-leav'd docks do overgrow
The groun' we trampled beäre below,
Wi' merry skippèns to an' fro,
Bezide the banks, where Jim did zit
A-plaÿèn o' the clarinit
To vaïces that be gone.
An' others where the birds did zing;
But long-leav'd docks do overgrow
The groun' we trampled beäre below,
Wi' merry skippèns to an' fro,
Bezide the banks, where Jim did zit
A-plaÿèn o' the clarinit
To vaïces that be gone.
How mother, when we us'd to stun
Her head wi' all our naïsy fun,
Did wish us all a-gone vrom hwome:
An' now that zome be dead, an' zome
A-gone, an' all the pleäce is dum',
How she do wish, wi' useless tears,
To have ageän about her ears
The vaïces that be gone.
Her head wi' all our naïsy fun,
Did wish us all a-gone vrom hwome:
An' now that zome be dead, an' zome
A-gone, an' all the pleäce is dum',
How she do wish, wi' useless tears,
To have ageän about her ears
The vaïces that be gone.
Vor all the maïdens an' the bwoys
But I, be marri'd off all woys,
Or dead an' gone; but I do bide
At hwome, alwone, at mother's zide,
An' often, at the evenèn-tide,
I still do saunter out, wi' tears,
Down drough the orcha'd, where my ears
Do miss the vaïces gone.
But I, be marri'd off all woys,
178
At hwome, alwone, at mother's zide,
An' often, at the evenèn-tide,
I still do saunter out, wi' tears,
Down drough the orcha'd, where my ears
Do miss the vaïces gone.
| Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect | |