When music, in a heart that’s true,
Do kindle up wold loves anew,
An’ dim wet eyes, in feaeirest lights,
Do zee but inward fancy’s zights;
When creepen years, wi’ with’ren blights,
'V a-took off them that wer so dear,
How touchen ’tis if we do hear
The tuens o’ the dead, John.
When I, a-stannen in the lew
O’ trees a storm’s a-beaeten drough,
Do zee the slanten mist a-drove
By spitevul winds along the grove,
An’ hear their hollow sounds above
My shelter’d head, do seem, as I
Do think o’ zunny days gone by.
Lik’ music vor the dead, John.
Last night, as I wer gwain along
The brook, I heaerd the milk-maid’s zong
A-ringen out so clear an’ shrill
Along the meaeds an’ roun’ the hill.
I catch’d the tuen, an’ stood still
To hear ‘t; ’twer woone that Jeaene did zing
A-vield a-milken in the spring,—
Sweet music o’ the dead, John.
Don’t tell o’ zongs that be a-zung
By young chaps now, wi’ sheaemeless tongue:
Zing me wold ditties, that would start
The maiden’s tears, or stir my heart
To teaeke in life a manly peaert,—
The wold vo’k’s zongs that twold a teaele,
An’ vollow’d round their mugs o’ eaele,
The music o’ the dead, John.
Other works by William Barnes...
