William Barnes

(1801-1886 / England)

William Barnes Poems

1. The Girt Woak Tree That's In The Dell 4/16/2010
2. Evenén In The Village 4/16/2010
3. Vull A Man 4/16/2010
4. Hay-Carren 4/16/2010
5. The Child An' The Mowers 4/16/2010
6. The White Road Up Athirt The Hill 4/16/2010
7. Vields By Watervalls 4/16/2010
8. The Peasant's Return 4/16/2010
9. The Young That Died In Beauty 4/16/2010
10. The Year Clock 4/16/2010
11. Hay-Meaken. Nunchen Time 4/16/2010
12. The Blackbird 4/16/2010
13. The Turnstile 4/16/2010
14. Woone Smile Mwore 1/1/2004
15. The Geate A-Vallen To 4/16/2010
16. My Fore-Elders 4/16/2010
17. Easter Zunday 4/16/2010
18. The Spring 4/16/2010
19. Tokens 1/13/2003
20. Wife A-Lost, The 12/31/2002
21. The Castle Ruins 1/1/2004
22. Zummer An' Winter 1/13/2003
23. Mater Dolorosa 1/4/2003
24. Blackmwore Maidens 1/1/2004
25. Woak Hill 5/8/2001
26. The Wife A-Lost 5/8/2001
27. My Orcha'D In Linden Lea 5/20/2006
28. The Broken Heart 1/13/2003
29. The Surprise 1/13/2003

Comments about William Barnes

  • Alfred Gamblen (3/7/2019 8:57:00 AM)

    Your. Reader has no idea of the 🚩Dorset dialect or she would know that “wi” means with and is pronounced.”we”.

    ‘Vok“ means “folk”. ‘zingen” means “singing”.
    “Gleaded is pronounced “ Glayded”. And on and on ‘so many mispronouncations I was very disappointed.

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Best Poem of William Barnes

My Orcha'D In Linden Lea

'Ithin the woodlands, flow'ry gleaded,
By the woak tree's mossy moot,
The sheenen grass bleades, timber-sheaded,
Now do quiver under voot;
An' birds do whissle auver head,
An' water's bubblen in its bed,
An' ther vor me the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.

When leaves that leately wer a-springen
Now do feade 'ithin the copse,
An' painted birds do hush ther zingen
Up upon the timber's tops;
An' brown-leav'd fruit's a-turnen red,
In cloudless zunsheen, auver head,
Wi' fruit vor me the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden ...

Read the full of My Orcha'D In Linden Lea

Mater Dolorosa

I'D a dream to-night
   As I fell asleep,
O! the touching sight
   Makes me still to weep:
Of my little lad,
Gone to leave me sad,
Ay, the child I had,
   But was not to keep.

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