Page:Barnes (1879) Poems of rural life in the Dorset dialect (combined).djvu/110

94 While down at vword the brook so small, &emsp;That leätely wer so high, O, Wi’ little tinklèn sounds do vall &emsp;In roun’ the stwones half dry, O; While twilight ha’ sich aïr in store, &emsp;To cool our zunburnt skin, O, We’ll have a ramble out o’ door, &emsp;When night’s a-zettèn in, O.

woaken tree, a-beät at night By stormy winds wi’ all their spite, Mid toss his lim’s, an’ ply, an’ mwoan, Wi’ unknown struggles all alwone; An’ when the day do show his head, A-stripp’d by winds at last a-laid, How vew mid think that didden zee, How night-time had a-tried thik tree.

An’ happy vo’k do seldom know How hard our unknown storms do blow, The while our heads do slowly bend Below the trials God do zend, Like shiv’rèn bennets, beäre to all The drevèn winds o’ dark’nèn fall. An’ zoo in tryèn hardships we Be lik’ the weather beaten tree.

But He will never meäke our sheäre O’ sorrow mwore than we can bear, But meäke us zee, if ’tis His will, That He can bring us good vrom ill; As after winter He do bring, In His good time, the zunny spring, An’ leaves, an’ young vo’k vull o’ glee A-dancèn roun’ the woaken tree.