Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Woody Hollow

by William Barnes

THE WOODY HOLLOW.

If mem’ry, when our hope’s a-gone,
Could bring us dreams to cheat us on,
Ov happiness our hearts voun’ true
In years we come too quickly drough;
What days should come to me, but you,
 That burn’d my youthvul cheäks wi’ zuns
 O’ zummer, in my plaÿsome runs
  About the woody hollow.

When evenèn’s risèn moon did peep
Down drough the hollow dark an’ deep,
Where gigglèn sweethearts meäde their vows
In whispers under waggèn boughs;
When whisslèn bwoys, an’ rott’lèn ploughs
 Wer still, an’ mothers, wi’ their thin
 Shrill vaïces, call’d their daughters in,
  From walkèn in the hollow;

What souls should come avore my zight,
But they that had your zummer light?
The litsome younger woones that smil’d
Wi’ comely feäzen now a-spweil’d;
Or wolder vo’k, so wise an’ mild,
 That I do miss when I do goo
 To zee the pleäce, an’ walk down drough
  The lwonesome woody hollow?

When wrongs an’ overbearèn words
Do prick my bleedèn heart lik’ swords,
Then I do try, vor Christes seäke,
To think o’ you, sweet days! an’ meäke
My soul as ’twer when you did weäke
 My childhood’s eyes, an’ when, if spite
 Or grief did come, did die at night
  In sleep ’ithin the hollow.