Verse > Anthologies > Andrew Macphail, ed. > The Book of Sorrow
Andrew Macphail, comp.  The Book of Sorrow.  1916.
XXVIII. Loneliness
The Wife a-lost
By William Barnes (1801–1886)
SINCE I noo mwore do zee your feäce,
  Up steäirs or down below,
I’ll zit me in the lwonesome pleäce,
  Where flat-bough’d beech do grow:
Below the beeches’ bough, my love,        5
  Where you did never come,
An’ I don’t look to meet ye now,
  As I do look at hwome.
Since you noo mwore be at my zide,
  In walks in zummer het,        10
I’ll goo alwone where mist do ride,
  Drough trees a-dripèn wet:
Below the raïn-wet bough, my love,
  Where you did never come,
An’ I don’t grieve to miss ye now,        15
  As I do grieve at hwome.
Since now bezide my dinner-bwoard
  Your vaïce do never sound,
I’ll eat the bit I can avword
  A-vield upon the ground;        20
Below the darksome bough, my love,
  Where you did never dine,
An’ I don’t grieve to miss ye now,
  As I at hwome do pine.
Since I do miss your vaïce an’ feäce        25
  In praÿer at eventide,
I’ll pray wi’ woone sad vaïce vor greäce
  To goo where you do bide;
    Above the tree an’ bough, my love,
      Where you be gone avore,        30
    An’ be a waïtèn vor me now,
      To come vor evermwore.

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