William Barnes

Sundry Pieces: The Music o’ the Dead

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.
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