Page:Barnes (1879) Poems of rural life in the Dorset dialect (combined).djvu/458

442 Sweet childern o’ the dead, bereft &emsp;Ov all their goods by guile an’ forgèn; Souls o’ driven sleäves that left &emsp;Their weäry limbs a-mark’d by scourgèn; They that God ha’ call’d to die Vor truth ageän the worold’s lie, An’ they that groan’d an’ cried in vaïn, A-bound by foes’ unrighteous chaïn.

The maïd that selfish craft led on &emsp;To sin, an’ left wi’ hope a-blighted; Starvèn workmen, thin an’ wan, &emsp;Wi’ hopeless leäbour ill requited; Souls a-wrong’d, an’ call’d to vill Wi’ dread, the men that us’d em ill. When might shall yield to right as pliant As a dwarf avore a giant.

When there, at last, the good shall glow &emsp;In starbright bodies lik’ their Seäviour, Vor all their flesh noo mwore mid show, &emsp;The marks o’ man’s unkind beheäviour: Wi’ speechless tongue, an’ burnèn cheak, The strong shall bow avore the weäk, An’ vind that helplessness, wi’ right, Is strong beyond all e’thly might.

wer the chap to show His naïghbours mwore than they did know, Vor he could zee, wi’ half a thought, What zome could hardly be a-taught; &emsp;An’ he had never any doubt Whatever ’twer, but he did know’t, &emsp;An’ had a-reach’d the bottom o’t, Or soon could meäke it out.