by William Barnes

William Barnes

Ah! you do seem to think the ground,
Where happiness is best a-vound,
Is where the high-peäl'd park do reach
Wi' elem-rows, or clumps o' beech;
Or where the coach do stand avore
The twelve-tunn'd house's lofty door,
Or men can ride behin' their hounds
Vor miles athirt their own wide grounds,
An' seldom wi' the lowly;
Upon the green that we do tread,
Below the welsh-nut's wide-limb'd head,
Or grass where apple trees do spread?
No, so's; no, no: not high nor low:
'Tis where the heart is holy.
'Tis true its veet mid tread the vloor,
'Ithin the marble-pillar'd door,
Where day do cast, in high-ruf'd halls.
His light drough lofty window'd walls;
An' wax-white han's do never tire
Wi' strokes ov heavy work vor hire,
An' all that money can avword
Do lwoad the zilver-brighten'd bwoard:
Or mid be wi' the lowly,
Where turf's a-smwolderèn avore
The back, to warm the stwonèn vloor
An' love's at hwome 'ithin the door?
No, so's; no, no; not high nor low:
'Tis where the heart is holy.
An' ceäre can come 'ithin a ring
O' sworded guards, to smite a king,
Though he mid hold 'ithin his hands
The zwarmèn vo'k o' many lands;
Or goo in drough the iron-geäte
Avore the house o' lofty steäte;
Or reach the miser that do smile
A-buildèn up his goolden pile;
Or else mid smite the lowly,
That have noo pow'r to loose or bind
Another's body, or his mind,
But only hands to help mankind.
If there is rest 'ithin the breast,
'Tis where the heart is holy.

Last updated August 18, 2022