Page:Barnes (1879) Poems of rural life in the Dorset dialect (combined).djvu/220

204 Zoo like her, that my eyes can treäce The mother’s in her daughter’s feäce. &emsp;O little feäce so near to me, An’ like thy mother’s gone; why need I zay Sweet night cloud, wi’ the glow o’ my lost day, &emsp;Thy looks be always dear to me. The zun’d a-zet another night; &emsp;But, by the moon on high, He still did zend us back his light &emsp;Below a cwolder sky. My Meäry’s in a better land I thought, but still her chile’s at hand, An’ in her chile she’ll zend me on Her love, though she herzelf’s a-gone. &emsp;O little chile so near to me, An’ like thy mother gone; why need I zay, Sweet moon, the messenger vrom my lost day, &emsp;Thy looks be always dear to me.

then we went along the gleädes O’ zunny turf, in quiv’rèn sheädes, A-windèn off, vrom hand to hand, Along a path o’ yollow zand, An’ clomb a stickle slope, an’ vound An open patch o’ lofty ground, Up where a steätely tow’r did spring, So high as highest larks do zing.

“Oh! Meäster Collins,” then I zaid, A-lookèn up wi’ back-flung head; Vor who but he, so mild o’ feäce, Should teäke me there to zee the pleäce.