Winter: Woak Wer Good Enough Woonce
Ees: now mahogany’s the goo,
An’ good wold English woak won’t do.
I wish vo’k always mid avvword
Hot meals upon a woaken bwoard,
As good as thik that took my cup
An’ trencher all my growen up.
Ah! I do mind en in the hall,
A-reachen all along the wall,
Wi’ us at father’s end, while tother
Did teaeke the maidens wi’ their mother;
An’ while the risen steam did spread
In curlen clouds up over head,
Our mouths did wag, an’ tongues did run,
To meaeke the maidens laugh o’ fun.
A woaken bedstead, black an’ bright,
Did teaeke my weary bwones at night,
Where I could stratch an’ roll about
Wi’ little fear o’ vallen out;
An’ up above my head a peaeir
Ov ugly heads a-carv’d did steaere,
An’ grin avore a bright vull moon
A’most enough to frighten woone.
An’ then we had, vor cwoats an’ frocks,
Woak cwoffers wi’ their rusty locks
An’ neaemes in nails, a-left behind
By kinsvo’k dead an’ out o’ mind;
Zoo we did get on well enough
Wi’ things a-meaede ov English stuff.
But then, you know, a woaken stick
Wer cheap, vor woaken trees wer thick.
When poor wold Gramfer Green wer young,
He zaid a squirrel mid a-sprung
Along the dell, vrom tree to tree,
Vrom Woodcomb all the way to Lea;
An’ woak wer all vo’k did avvword,
Avore his time, vor bed or bwoard.
Autres oeuvres par William Barnes...
