The Wold Vo'K Dead
My days, wi' wold vo'k all but gone,An' childern now a-comen on,Do bring me still my mother's smilesIn light that now do show my chile's;An' I've a-sheaer'd the wold vo'ks' me'th,Avore the burnen Chris'mas he'th,At friendly bwoards, where feaece by feaece,Did, year by year, gi'e up its pleaece,An' leaeve me here, behind, to treadThe ground a-trod by wold vo'k dead.
But wold things be a-lost vor new,An' zome do come, while zome do goo:As wither'd beech-tree leaves do clingAmong the nesh young buds o' Spring;An' fretten worms ha' slowly wound,Droo beams the wold vo'k lifted sound,An' trees they planted little slipsHa' stems that noo two eaerms can clips;An' grey an' yollow moss do spreadOn buildens new to wold vo'k dead.
The backs of all our zilv'ry hills,The brook that still do dreve our mills,The roads a-climen up the browsO' knaps, a-screen'd by meaeple boughs,Wer all a-mark'd in sheaede an' lightAvore our wolder fathers' zight,In zunny days, a-gied their handsFor happy work, a-tillen lands,That now do yield their childern breadTill they do rest wi' wold vo'k dead.
But liven vo'k, a-grieven on,Wi' lwonesome love, vor souls a-gone,Do zee their goodness, but do vindAll else a-stealen out o' mind;As air do meaeke the vurthest landLook feaeirer than the vield at hand,An' zoo, as time do slowly pass,So still's a sheaede upon the grass,Its wid'nen speaece do slowly shedA glory roun' the wold vo'k dead.
An' what if good vo'ks' life o' breathIs zoo a-hallow'd after death,That they mid only know above,Their times o' faith, an' jay, an' love,While all the evil time ha' brought'S a-lost vor ever out o' thought;As all the moon that idden bright,'S a-lost in darkness out o' zight;And all the godly life they ledIs glory to the wold vo'k dead.
If things be zoo, an' souls aboveCan only mind our e'thly love,Why then they'll veel our kindness drownThe thoughts ov all that meaede em frown.An' jay o' jays will dry the tearO' sadness that do trickle here,An' nothen mwore o' life than love,An' peace, will then be know'd above.Do good, vor that, when life's a-vled,Is still a pleasure to the dead.
Words in this poem
- wold n.
- A wood; a forest. [OE. wold, wald, AS. weald, wald, a wood, forest; akin to OFries. & OS. wald, D. woud, G. wald, Icel. völlr, a field, and probably to Gr. va a garden, inclosure.]
- nesh a.
- Soft; tender; delicate. [AS. hnesc, hnæsc, akin to Goth. hnasqus.]
- fretten a.
- Rubbed; marked; as, pock-fretten, marked with the smallpox. [The old p. p. of fret to rub.]
- backs n.
- Among leather dealers, the thickest and stoutest tanned hides.
- sadness n.
- Heaviness; firmness.
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
The Wold Vo'K Dead is in the public domain. This text is taken from Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect, Project Gutenberg ebook #21785; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: William Barnes, The Wold Vo'K Dead, in Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect (1844–1862), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #21785, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/barnes-dorset/the-wold-vo-k-dead.html, id L02178.
Form and metre
The Wold Vo'K Dead is 60 lines in 6 stanzas of 10 lines each. The rhyme scheme is AABBCCDDEE, complete in 4 of its 6 stanzas. The metre is iambic tetrameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 91%). 98% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 8.1 syllables. 1 line ends on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 30% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
See other poems in iambic tetrameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 AA--BBCCDD goneA · onA · smiles · chile's · me'thB · he'thB · feaeceC · pleaeceC · treadD · deadD
- 2 AABBCCDDEE newA · gooA · clingB · springB · woundC · soundC · slipsD · clipsD · spreadE · deadE
- 3 AABBCCDDEE hillsA · millsA · browsB · boughsB · lightC · zightC · handsD · landsD · breadE · deadE
- 4 AABBCCDDEE onA · goneA · vindB · mindB · landC · handC · passD · grassD · shedE · deadE
- 5 AABBCCDDEE breathA · deathA · aboveB · loveB · broughtC · thoughtC · brightD · zightD · ledE · deadE
- 6 AABBCCAA-- aboveA · loveA · drownB · frownB · tearC · hereC · loveA · aboveA · vled · dead
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic tetrameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| My days, wi' wold vo'k all but gone, | 8 | ········ |
| An' childern now a-comen on, | 8 | ········ |
| Do bring me still my mother's smiles | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| In light that now do show my chile's; | 9 | ·······/˘ |
| An' I've a-sheaer'd the wold vo'ks' me'th, | 8 | ········ |
| Avore the burnen Chris'mas he'th, | 8 | ········ |
| At friendly bwoards, where feaece by feaece, | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| Did, year by year, gi'e up its pleaece, | 8 | ········ |
| An' leaeve me here, behind, to tread | 8 | ········ |
| The ground a-trod by wold vo'k dead. | 8 | ········ |
| But wold things be a-lost vor new, | 8 | ········ |
| An' zome do come, while zome do goo: | 8 | ········ |
| As wither'd beech-tree leaves do cling | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| Among the nesh young buds o' Spring; | 8 | ········ |
| An' fretten worms ha' slowly wound, | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| Droo beams the wold vo'k lifted sound, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| An' trees they planted little slips | 8 | ···/˘/˘· |
| Ha' stems that noo two eaerms can clips; | 8 | ········ |
| An' grey an' yollow moss do spread | 8 | ········ |
| On buildens new to wold vo'k dead. | 8 | ········ |
| The backs of all our zilv'ry hills, | 8 | ····/··· |
| The brook that still do dreve our mills, | 8 | ······/· |
| The roads a-climen up the brows | 8 | ········ |
| O' knaps, a-screen'd by meaeple boughs, | 8 | ········ |
| Wer all a-mark'd in sheaede an' light | 8 | ········ |
| Avore our wolder fathers' zight, | 8 | ··/··/˘· |
| In zunny days, a-gied their hands | 8 | ········ |
| For happy work, a-tillen lands, | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| That now do yield their childern bread | 8 | ········ |
| Till they do rest wi' wold vo'k dead. | 8 | ········ |
| But liven vo'k, a-grieven on, | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| Wi' lwonesome love, vor souls a-gone, | 9 | ········· |
| Do zee their goodness, but do vind | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| All else a-stealen out o' mind; | 8 | ········ |
| As air do meaeke the vurthest land | 8 | ········ |
| Look feaeirer than the vield at hand, | 8 | ········ |
| An' zoo, as time do slowly pass, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| So still's a sheaede upon the grass, | 8 | ········ |
| Its wid'nen speaece do slowly shed | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| A glory roun' the wold vo'k dead. | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| An' what if good vo'ks' life o' breath | 8 | ········ |
| Is zoo a-hallow'd after death, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| That they mid only know above, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Their times o' faith, an' jay, an' love, | 8 | ········ |
| While all the evil time ha' brought | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| 'S a-lost vor ever out o' thought; | 8 | ····/··· |
| As all the moon that idden bright, | 8 | ········ |
| 'S a-lost in darkness out o' zight; | 9 | ····/˘··· |
| And all the godly life they led | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Is glory to the wold vo'k dead. | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| If things be zoo, an' souls above | 8 | ········ |
| Can only mind our e'thly love, | 8 | ·/˘·/··· |
| Why then they'll veel our kindness drown | 8 | ····//˘· |
| The thoughts ov all that meaede em frown. | 8 | ········ |
| An' jay o' jays will dry the tear | 8 | ········ |
| O' sadness that do trickle here, | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| An' nothen mwore o' life than love, | 8 | ········ |
| An' peace, will then be know'd above. | 8 | ········ |
| Do good, vor that, when life's a-vled, | 8 | ········ |
| Is still a pleasure to the dead. | 8 | ···/˘··· |
The reader shows the same poem with its rhymes coloured and a stress row above each line, the notes beside their stanzas, and any word's definition on a tap; the analysis page takes the whole book apart. How every part of this site was made.