Poems, partly of rural life, (in national English.) By William Barnes |
 |
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
BURNCOMBE HOLLOW. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
 | Poems, partly of rural life, (in national English.) |  |
89
BURNCOMBE HOLLOW.
While snowy nightwinds, blowing bleak
Up hill, made rock-borne fir-trees creak,
And drove the snow-flakes, feather-light,
O'er icy streams in playsome flight,
And while the roof was snowy white,
There blazing cleftwood threw its heat
With ruddy light, to chilly feet,
In lonely Burncombe hollow.
Up hill, made rock-borne fir-trees creak,
And drove the snow-flakes, feather-light,
O'er icy streams in playsome flight,
And while the roof was snowy white,
There blazing cleftwood threw its heat
With ruddy light, to chilly feet,
In lonely Burncombe hollow.
And Jenny, that had just put down
Her load of errands brought from town,
Sat leaning backward in her chair,
Cheek-warm, with weather-loosen'd hair;
And told, with smiles 'twas bliss to share,
Her news; while putting out for heat,
Down side by side, her comely feet,
At home in Burncombe hollow.
Her load of errands brought from town,
Sat leaning backward in her chair,
Cheek-warm, with weather-loosen'd hair;
And told, with smiles 'twas bliss to share,
Her news; while putting out for heat,
Down side by side, her comely feet,
At home in Burncombe hollow.
90
And while the children ran to pull
Her errands from her basket full,
Her friends and I, all wordless, hung
Upon the words of her gay tongue;
But they with old love, I with young:
For all my soul, with all my sight,
Were given up that happy night,
To Jane of Burncombe hollow.
Her errands from her basket full,
Her friends and I, all wordless, hung
Upon the words of her gay tongue;
But they with old love, I with young:
For all my soul, with all my sight,
Were given up that happy night,
To Jane of Burncombe hollow.
And where did first her sweet voice own
Her love for me and me alone,
But climbing up the eastern side
Of Burncombe hollow, that did hide
The western sunset, crimson-dyed,
O'er leaves that rustled on the ground,
Below the ivy twining round
The trees of Burncombe hollow.
Her love for me and me alone,
But climbing up the eastern side
Of Burncombe hollow, that did hide
The western sunset, crimson-dyed,
O'er leaves that rustled on the ground,
Below the ivy twining round
The trees of Burncombe hollow.
And now her careful friends that bred
Her up so fair and good, are dead;
And she, a woman mild and staid,
Is keeping house where once she play'd
And won my love, a blooming maid;
And all the joy my soul can know
With her will stay, with her must go
From me in Burncombe hollow.
Her up so fair and good, are dead;
And she, a woman mild and staid,
Is keeping house where once she play'd
And won my love, a blooming maid;
And all the joy my soul can know
With her will stay, with her must go
From me in Burncombe hollow.
91
And so 'tis sweet with her my wife
To look back o'er our wedded life,
Which she, e'er smiling in my sight,
Has made a cloudless day, still bright,
But waning slowly into night;
And if I had my time once more
To choose, I'd choose no maid before
The maid of Burncombe hollow.
To look back o'er our wedded life,
Which she, e'er smiling in my sight,
Has made a cloudless day, still bright,
But waning slowly into night;
And if I had my time once more
To choose, I'd choose no maid before
The maid of Burncombe hollow.
So winter darkness come to brood
O'er sullen moans of waving wood,
Come hov'ring snow, so lightly cast
Upon the ground where ice seals fast
The water from the cutting blast.
I heed you not, while shelter'd where
Love lights me up the ruddy glare
Of fire in Burncombe hollow.
O'er sullen moans of waving wood,
Come hov'ring snow, so lightly cast
Upon the ground where ice seals fast
The water from the cutting blast.
I heed you not, while shelter'd where
Love lights me up the ruddy glare
Of fire in Burncombe hollow.
| Poems, partly of rural life, (in national English.) | |