When sycamore leaves wer a-spreadèn, Green-ruddy, in hedges, Bezide the red doust o' the ridges, A-dried at Woak Hill; I packed up my goods all a-sheenèn Wi' long years o' handlèn, On dousty red wheels ov a waggon, To ride at Woak Hill. The brown thatchen ruf o' the dwellèn I then wer a-leävèn, Had shelter'd the sleek head o' Meäry, My bride at Woak Hill. But now vor zome years, her light voot-vall 'S a-lost vrom the vloorèn. Too soon vor my jaÿ an' my childern, She died at Woak Hill. But still I do think that, in soul, She do hover about us; To ho vor her motherless childern, Her pride at Woak Hill. Zoo – lest she should tell me hereafter I stole off 'ithout her, An' left her, uncall'd at house-riddèn, To bide at Woak Hill – I call'd her so fondly, wi' lippèns All soundless to others, An' took her wi' aïr-reachèn hand, To my zide at Woak Hill. On the road I did look round, a-talkèn To light at my shoulder, An' then led her in at the door-way, Miles wide vrom Woak Hill. An' that's why vo'k thought, vor a season, My mind wer a-wandrèn Wi' sorrow, when I wer so sorely A-tried at Woak Hill. But no; that my Meäry mid never Behold herzelf slighted, I wanted to think that I guided My guide vrom Woak Hill. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BUCOLIC COMEDY: SPRING by EDITH SITWELL WIDOW MALONE by CHARLES JAMES LEVER SACRIFICE by GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL THE FAMINE YEAR by JANE FRANCESCA WILDE ANOTHER FRANCIS OF ASSISI by FREDERICK HENRY HERBERT ADLER |