WOAK HILL - Sabine Baring-Gould Poems


Poems » sabine baring gould » woak hill


  When sycamore leaves wer a-spreadèn
    Green-ruddy in hedges,
Bezide the red doust o' the ridges,
    A-dried at Woak Hill;

  I packed up my goods all a sheenèn
    Wi' long years o' handlèn,
On dousty red wheel ov a waggon,
    To ride at Woak Hill.

  The brown thatchen ruf o' the dwellèn,
    I then wer a-leävèn,
Had shelter'd the sleek head o' Meäry,
    My bride at Woak Hill.

  But now vor zome years, her light voot-vall
    'S a-lost vrom the vloorèn.
Too soon vor my ja{"y} an' my childern,
    She died at Woak Hill.

  But still I do think that, in soul,
    She do hover about us;
To ho vor her motherless childern,
    Her pride at Woak Hill.

  Zoo--lest she should tell me hereafter
    I stole off 'ithout her,
An' left her, uncall'd at house-riddèn,
    To bide at Woak Hill--

  I call'd her so fondly, wi' lippèns
    All soundless to others,
An' took her wi' aïr-reachèn hand,
    To my zide at Woak Hill.

  On the road I did look round, a-talkèn
    To light at my shoulder,
An' then led her in at the doorway,
    Miles wide vrom Woak Hill.

  An' that's why vo'k thought, vor a season,
    My mind wer a-wandrèn
Wi' sorrow, when I wer so sorely
    A-tried at Woak Hill.

  But no; that my Meäry mid never
    Behold herzelf slighted,
I wanted to think that I guided
    My guide vrom Woak Hill.