The Golden Treasury | ||
CLXXXVII
READEN OV A HEAD-STWONE
As I wer readèn ov a stwone
In Grenley church-yard all alwone,
A little maïd ran up, wi' pride
To zee me there, an' push'd a-zide
A bunch o' bennets that did hide
A verse her father, as she zaïd,
Put up above her mother's head,
To tell how much he loved her.
In Grenley church-yard all alwone,
A little maïd ran up, wi' pride
To zee me there, an' push'd a-zide
A bunch o' bennets that did hide
A verse her father, as she zaïd,
Put up above her mother's head,
To tell how much he loved her.
The verse wer short, but very good,
I stood an' larn'd en where I stood:—
‘Mid God, dear Meäry, gi'e me greäce
To vind, lik' thee, a better pleäce,
Where I woonce mwore mid zee thy feäce;
An' bring thy childern up to know
His word, that they mid come an' show
Thy soul how much I lov'd thee.’
I stood an' larn'd en where I stood:—
‘Mid God, dear Meäry, gi'e me greäce
To vind, lik' thee, a better pleäce,
Where I woonce mwore mid zee thy feäce;
An' bring thy childern up to know
His word, that they mid come an' show
Thy soul how much I lov'd thee.’
252
‘Where's father, then,’ I zaid, ‘my chile?’
‘Dead too,’ she answer'd wi' a smile;
‘An' I an' brother Jim do bide
At Betty White's, o' t'other side
O' road.’ ‘Mid He, my chile,’ I cried,
‘That's father to the fatherless,
Become thy father now, an' bless,
An' keep, an' leäd, an' love thee.’
‘Dead too,’ she answer'd wi' a smile;
‘An' I an' brother Jim do bide
At Betty White's, o' t'other side
O' road.’ ‘Mid He, my chile,’ I cried,
‘That's father to the fatherless,
Become thy father now, an' bless,
An' keep, an' leäd, an' love thee.’
Though she've a-lost, I thought, so much,
Still He don't let the thoughts o't touch
Her litsome heart by day or night;
An' zoo, if we could teäke it right,
Do show He'll meäke His burdens light
To weaker souls, an' that His smile
Is sweet upon a harmless chile,
When they be dead that lov'd it.
Still He don't let the thoughts o't touch
Her litsome heart by day or night;
An' zoo, if we could teäke it right,
Do show He'll meäke His burdens light
To weaker souls, an' that His smile
Is sweet upon a harmless chile,
When they be dead that lov'd it.
W. Barnes
The Golden Treasury | ||