Page:Barnes (1879) Poems of rural life in the Dorset dialect (combined).djvu/363

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sycamore leaves wer a-spreadèn, &emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;Green-ruddy, in hedges, Bezide the red doust o’ the ridges, &emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;A-dried at Woak Hill;

I packed up my goods all a-sheenèn &emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;Wi’ long years o’ handlèn, On dousty red wheels ov a waggon, &emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;To ride at Woak Hill.

The brown thatchen ruf o’ the dwellèn, &emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;I then wer a-leävèn, Had shelter’d the sleek head o’ Meäry, &emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;My bride at Woak Hill.

But now vor zome years, her light voot-vall &emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;’S a-lost vrom the vloorèn. Too soon vor my jaÿ an’ my childern, &emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;She died at Woak Hill.

But still I do think that, in soul, &emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;She do hover about us; To ho vor her motherless childern, &emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;Her pride at Woak Hill.

Zoo—lest she should tell me hereafter &emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;I stole off ’ithout her, An’ left her, uncall’d at house-riddèn, &emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;To bide at Woak Hill—

I call’d her so fondly, wi’ lippèns &emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;All soundless to others, An’ took her wi’ aïr-reachèn hand, &emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;To my zide at Woak Hill.