Page:Barnes (1879) Poems of rural life in the Dorset dialect (combined).djvu/414

398 Till day do call the sons o’ men &emsp;Vrom night-sleep’s blackness, vull o’ sprackness, Out abroad to tweil ageän.

Where the vaïce o’ the winds is mildest, &emsp;In the plaïn, their stroke is keen; Where their dreatnèn vaïce is wildest, &emsp;In the grove, the grove’s our screen. An’ where the worold in their strife Do dreatèn mwost our tweilsome life, Why there Almighty ceäre mid cast A better screen ageän the blast. Zoo I woon’t live in fear o’ men, &emsp;But, man-neglected, God-directed, Still wull tweil an’ tweil ageän.

stillness we ha’ words to hear, &emsp;An’ sheäpes to zee in darkest night, An’ tongues a-lost can haïl us near, &emsp;An’ souls a-gone can smile in zight; When Fancy now do wander back &emsp;To years a-spent, an’ bring to mind &emsp;Zome happy tide a-left behind In’ weästèn life’s slow-beatèn track.

When feädèn leaves do drip wi’ raïn, &emsp;Our thoughts can ramble in the dry; When Winter win’ do zweep the plaïn &emsp;We still can have a zunny sky. Vor though our limbs be winter-wrung, &emsp;We still can zee, wi’ Fancy’s eyes, &emsp;The brightest looks ov e’th an’ skies, That we did know when we wer young.