William Baron Poems

The usual thing it used to be
Our summers to decry,
Because they were too wet, you see,—
We longed to have them dry.
...

'What meks tha sit so quate, to-neet ?
Come, hes ta nowt to say ?
Theaw coom i' th' heawse an' never spoke
O th' time theaw geet thi tay.
...

Yo may talk abeawt Growcot, or Postle, or Day,
As runners o' fame an' reneawn ;
But if Owd Billy Putty mun pick his own track,
...

Aw've bin watchin' th' Whit-Frida' processions,—
Th' big event uv o' th' year in eawr teawn';
An' aw thowt it might prove interestin'
...

Ther's an owd family relic on th' bookshelf up theer,
An’ aw'll keep it till th' day 'at aw dee;
Aw know 'at it wouldno' be wo'th mich to yo,
...

As the Fairy Queen sat on her gossamer throne
That sparkled with pearls of dew,
She suddenly cried to a sprite at her side-
...

Aw know a wench wi' soft blue een
'At dart forth luvvin' glances ;
An' it's hur aw'd like to mek mi queen,
For mi soul hoo fair entrances.
...

Theaw thinks theaw'rt hon'some - doesno' theaw ?
But tek my word theaw'rt reet deawn feaw;
No sign o' beauty con one trace,
...

Well, what are ta bringin' us, like, when theaw comes ?—
We're feelin' quite anxious to know ;
Is it good news 'at'll gladden eawr hearts ?
...

Aw'd just stopped to rest me, a bit past th' owd farm;
For t' basket wur heavy, an' t' weather wur warm.
...