Page:Barnes (1879) Poems of rural life in the Dorset dialect (combined).djvu/426

410 But inside, to a tree a-meäde vast, &emsp;Wer the childern’s light swing, a-hung low, An’ a-rock’d by the brisk-blowèn blast, &emsp;Aye, a-swung by the win’ to an’ fro.

Vor the childern, wi’ pillow-borne head, &emsp;Had vorgotten their swing on the lawn, An’ their father, asleep wi’ the dead, &emsp;Had vorgotten his work at the dawn; An’ their mother, a vew stilly hours, &emsp;Had vorgotten where he sleept so sound, Where the wind wer a-sheäkèn the flow’rs, &emsp;Aye, the blast the feäir buds on the ground.

Oh! the moon, wi’ his peäle lighted skies, &emsp;Have his sorrowless sleepers below. But by day to the zun they must rise &emsp;To their true lives o’ tweil an’ ov ho. Then the childern wull rise to their fun, &emsp;An’ their mother mwore sorrow to veel, While the aïr is a-warm’d by the zun, &emsp;Aye, the win’ by the day’s vi’ry wheel.

the time when zuns went down On zummer’s green a-turn’d to brown, When sheädes o’ swaÿèn wheat-eärs vell Upon the scarlet pimpernel; The while you still mid goo, an’ vind &emsp;’Ithin the geärden’s mossy wall, &emsp;Sweet blossoms, low or risèn tall, To meäke a tutty to your mind, In churchyard heav’d, wi’ grassy breast, The greäve-mound ov a beäby’s rest.