by William Barnes
Upon theäse knap I'd sooner be
The ivy that do climb the tree,
Than bloom the gaÿest rwose a-tied
An' trimm'd upon the house's zide.
The rwose mid be the maïdens' pride,
But still the ivy's wild an' free;
An' what is all that life can gi'e,
'Ithout a free light heart, John?
The creepèn sheäde mid steal too soon
Upon the rwose in afternoon;
But here the zun do drow his het
Vrom when do rise till when do zet,
To dry the leaves the raïn do wet.
An' evenèn aïr do bring along
The merry deäiry-maïden's zong,
The zong of free light hearts, John.
Oh! why do vo'k so often chaïn
Their pinèn minds vor love o' gaïn,
An' gi'e their innocence to rise
A little in the worold's eyes?
If pride could lift us to the skies,
What man do value God do slight,
An' all is nothèn in his zight
'Ithout an honest heart, John.
An ugly feäce can't bribe the brooks
To show it back young han'some looks,
Nor crooked vo'k intice the light
To cast their zummer sheädes upright:
Noo goold can blind our Meäker's zight.
An' what's the odds what cloth do hide
The bosom that do hold inside
A free an' honest heart, John?
Last updated January 14, 2019