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W. Barnes

The church do zeem a touchèn zight,

When vo'k, a-comèn in at door,

Do softly tread the long-aïled vloor

Below the pillar'd arches' height,

Wi' bells a-pealèn,

Vo'k a-kneelèn,

Hearts a-healèn, wi' the love

An' peäe a-zent194194a-zent, sent em vrom above.

An' there, wi' mild an' thoughtvul feäce,

Wi' downcast eyes, an' vaïces dum',

The wold an' young do slowly come,

An' teäke in stillness each his pleäce,

A-zinkèn slowly,

Kneelèn lowly,

Seekèn holy thoughts alwone195195alwone, alone,

In pray'r avore their Meäker's throne.


An' there be sons in youthvul pride,

An' fathers weak, wi' years an' païn,

An' daughters in their mother's traïn,

The tall wi' smaller at their zide;

Heads in murnèn,196196murnen, mourning

Never turnèn,

Cheäks a-burnèn, wi' the het

O' youth, an' eyes noo tears do wet.

There friends do settle, zide by zide,

The knower speechless to the known;

Their vaïce is there vor GOD alwone,

To flesh an' blood their tongues be tied.

Grief a-wringèn,

Jaÿ197197jay, joy a-zingèn,

Pray'r a-bringèn welcome rest

So softly to the troubled breast.

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