Email Poem

Your IP Address: 104.23.243.100

From Email:	Required Email Address Not Valid.
To Email:	Email Address Not Valid. Required
Subject	Required
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem	In the zunsheen of our zummers Wi’ the hay time now a-come, How busy wer we out a-vield Wi’ vew a-left at hwome, When waggons rumbled out ov yard Red wheeled, wi’ body blue, And back behind ‘em loudly slamm’d The geate a’vallen to. Drough daysheen ov how many years The geate ha’ now a-swung Behind the veet o’ vull-grown men And vootsteps of the young. Drough years o’ days it swung to us Behind each little shoe, As we tripped lightly on avore The geate a-vallen to. In evenen time o’ starry night How mother zot at hwome, And kept her bleazen vier bright Till father should ha’ come, An' how she quicken'd up and smiled An' stirred her vier anew, To hear the trampen ho'ses’ steps An' geate a-vallen to. There’s moon-sheen now in nights o’ fall When leaves be brown vrom green, When, to the slammen o' the geate, Our Jenny’s ears be keen, When the wold dog do wag his tail, An' Jean could tell to who, As he do come in drough the geate, The geate a-vallen to. An' oft do come a saddened hour When there must goo away One well-beloved to our heart’s core, Vor long, perhaps vor aye: An' oh! it is a touchen thing The loven heart must rue, To hear behind his last farewell The geate a-vallen to. (William Barnes’s last dialect poem, dictated shortly before his death.)
	Type the characters you see in the picture Required