William Barnes

Fall: A Zong Ov Harvest Hwome

The ground is clear. There’s nar a ear
     O’ stannen corn a-left out now,
Vor win’ to blow or rain to drow;
     ’Tis all up seaefe in barn or mow.
     Here’s health to them that plough’d an’ zow’d;
     Here’s health to them that reap’d an’ mow’d,
     An’ them that had to pitch an’ lwoad,
     Or tip the rick at Harvest Hwome.
The happy zight,—the merry night,
The men’s delight,—the Harvest Hwome.
 
An’ mid noo harm o’ vire or storm
     Beval the farmer or his corn;
An’ ev’ry zack o’ zeed gi’e back
     A hunderd-vwold so much in barn.
     An’ mid his Meaeker bless his store,
     His wife an’ all that she’ve a-bore,
     An’ keep all evil out o’ door,
     Vrom Harvest Hwome to Harvest Hwome.
The happy zight,—the merry night,
The men’s delight,—the Harvest Hwome.
 
Mid nothen ill betide the mill,
     As day by day the miller’s wheel
Do dreve his clacks, an’ heist his zacks,
     An’ vill his bins wi’ show’ren meal:
     Mid’s water never overflow
     His dousty mill, nor zink too low,
     Vrom now till wheat ageaen do grow,
     An’ we’ve another Harvest Hwome.
The happy zight,—the merry night,
The men’s delight,—the Harvest Hwome.
 
Drough cisterns wet an’ malt-kil’s het,
     Mid barley pay the malter’s pains;
An’ mid noo hurt bevall the wort,
     A-bweilen vrom the brewer’s grains.
     Mid all his beer keep out o’ harm
     Vrom bu’sted hoop or thunder storm,
     That we mid have a mug to warm
     Our merry hearts nex’ Harvest Hwome.
The happy zight,—the merry night,
The men’s delight,—the Harvest Hwome.
 
Mid luck an’ jay the beaeker pay,
     As he do hear his vier roar,
Or nimbly catch his hot white batch,
     A-reeken vrom the oven door.
     An’ mid it never be too high
     Vor our vew zixpences to buy,
     When we do hear our childern cry
     Vor bread, avore nex’ Harvest Hwome.
The happy zight,—the merry night,
The men’s delight,—the Harvest Hwome.
 
Wi’ jay o’ heart mid shooters start
     The whirren pa’tridges in vlocks;
While shots do vlee drough bush an’ tree,
     An’ dogs do stan’ so still as stocks.
     An’ let em ramble round the farms
     Wi’ guns 'ithin their bended eaerms,
     In goolden zunsheen free o’ storms,
     Rejaicen vor the Harvest Hwome.
The happy zight,—the merry night,
The men’s delight,—the Harvest Hwome.
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