The Turnstile

A poem by William Barnes

Ah! sad wer we as we did peace
the wold church road, wi' downcast feace,
the while the bells, that mwoaned so deep
above our child a-left asleep,
wer now a-zingen all alive
wi' t'other bells to meake the vive.
But up at woone pleace we come by,
t'wer hard to keep woone's two eyes dry
on Stean-cliff road, 'ithin the drong,
up where, as vo'k do pass along,
the turnen 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' spreaden arms that wheeled to guide
us each in turn to t'other zide.
An' vu'st ov all the train he took
my wife, wi' winsome gait an' look:
An' then zent on my little maid,
a-skippen onward, overjay'd
to reach agean the pleace o' pride,
her comely mother's left han' zide.
An' then, a-wheelen roun', he took
on me, 'ithin his third white nook.
An' in the fourth, a sheaken wild,
he zent us on our giddy child.
But eesterday he guided slow
my downcast Jenny, vull o' woe,
an' then my little maid in black,
a-walken softly on her track.
An' after he'd a-turned agean
to let me goo along the leane,
he had noo little bwoy to vill
his last white earms, an' they stood still.

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