Why tidden vields an’ runnen brooks,
Nor trees in Spring or fall;
An’ tidden woody slopes an’ nooks,
Do touch us mwost ov all;
An’ tidden ivy that do cling
By housen big an’ wold, O,
But this is, after all, the thing,—
The pleaece a teaele’s a-twold o’.
At Burn, where mother’s young friends know’d
The vu’st her maiden neaeme,
The zunny knaps, the narrow road
An’ green, be still the seaeme;
The squier’s house, an’ ev’ry ground
That now his son ha’ zwold, O,
An’ ev’ry wood he hunted round
'S a pleaece a teaele’s a-twold o’.
The maid a-lov’d to our heart’s core,
The dearest of our kin,
Do meaeke us like the very door
Where they went out an’ in.
’Tis zome’hat touchen that bevel
Poor flesh an’ blood o’ wold, O,
Do meaeke us like to zee so well
The pleaece a teaele’s a-twold o’.
When blushen Jenny vu’st did come
To zee our Poll o’ nights,
An’ had to goo back leaetish hwome,
Where vo’k did zee the zights,
A-chatten loud below the sky
So dark, an’ winds so cwold, O,
How proud wer I to zee her by
The pleaece the teaele’s a-twold o’.
Zoo whether ’tis the humpy ground
That wer a battle viel’,
Or mossy house, all ivy-bound,
An’ vallen down piece-meal;
Or if ’tis but a scraggy tree,
Where beauty smil’d o’ wold, O,
How dearly I do like to zee
The pleaece a teaele’s a-twold o’.
Other works by William Barnes...
