Wheat
In brown-leav’d Fall the wheat a-left
'Ithin its darksome bed,
Where all the creaken roller’s heft
Seal’d down its lowly head,
Sprung sheaeken drough the crumblen mwold,
Green-yollow, vrom below,
An’ bent its bleaedes, a-glitt’ren cwold,
At last in winter snow.
Zoo luck betide
The upland zide,
Where wheat do wride,
In corn-vields wide,
By crowns o’ Do’set Downs, O.
An’ while the screamen bird-bwoy shook
Wi’ little zun-burnt hand,
His clacker at the bright-wing’d rook,
About the zeeded land;
His meaester there did come an’ stop
His bridle-champen meaere,
Wi’ thankvul heart, to zee his crop
A-comen up so feaeir.
As there awhile
By geaete or stile,
He gi’ed the chile
A cheeren smile,
By crowns o’ Do’set Downs, O.
At last, wi’ eaers o’ darksome red,
The yollow stalks did ply,
A-swayen slow, so heavy 's lead,
In air a-blowen by;
An’ then the busy reapers laid
In row their russlen grips,
An’ sheaeves, a-leaenen head by head,
Did meaeke the stitches tips.
Zoo food’s a-vound,
A-comen round,
Vrom zeed in ground,
To sheaves a-bound,
By crowns o’ Do’set Downs, O.
An’ now the wheat, in lofty lwoads,
Above the meaeres’ broad backs,
Do ride along the cracklen rwoads,
Or dousty waggon-tracks.
An’ there, mid every busy pick,
Ha’ work enough to do;
An’ where, avore, we built woone rick,
Mid theaese year gi’e us two;
Wi’ God our friend,
An’ wealth to spend,
Vor zome good end,
That times mid mend,
In towns, an’ Do’set Downs, O.
Zoo let the merry thatcher veel
Fine weather on his brow,
As he, in happy work, do kneel
Up roun’ the new-built mow,
That now do zwell in sich a size,
An’ rise to sich a height,
That, oh! the miller’s wistful eyes
Do sparkle at the zight
An’ long mid stand,
A happy band,
To till the land,
Wi’ head an’ hand,
By crowns o’ Do’set Downs, O.
Other works by William Barnes...
