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C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

The Turnstile

By William Barnes (1801–1886)

AH! sad wer we as we did peäce

The wold church road, wi’ downcast feäce,

The while the bells, that mwoan’d so deep

Above our child a-left asleep,

Wer now a-zingèn all alive

Wi’ tother bells to meäke the vive.

But up at woone pleäce we come by,

’Twere hard to keep woone’s two eyes dry;

On Steän-cliff road, ’ithin the drong,

Up where, as vo’k do pass along,

The turnèn stile, a-painted white,

Do sheen by day an’ show by night.

Vor always there, as we did goo

To church, thik stile did let us drough,

Wi’ spreadèn eärms that wheel’d to guide

Us each in turn to tother zide.

An’ vu’st ov all the traïn he took

My wife, wi’ winsome gaït an’ look;

An’ then zent on my little maïd,

A-skippèn onward, overjäy’d

To reach ageän the pleäce o’ pride,

Her comely mother’s left han’ zide.

An’ then, a-wheelèn roun’ he took

On me, ’ithin his third white nook.

An’ in the fourth, a-sheäken wild,

He zent us on our giddy child.

But eesterday he guided slow

My downcast Jenny, vull o’ woe,

An’ then my little maïd in black,

A-walken softly on her track;

An’ after he’d a-turn’d ageän,

To let me goo along the leäne,

He had noo little bwoy to vill

His last white eärms, an’ they stood still.