FORGET ‘at iver I ran barefoot
An’ danced round a brushwood fire,
An’ oot of our vardo window watched
Stars dim a poplar spire!
Forget my granny who sits on t’ steps
A-smokin’ her owd clay pipe!
How t’ years crinkle-crankle thro’ her mind
As she harks t’ wailin’ o’ t’ snipe!
Forget my Dad! Theer’s niver a man
In t’ north or t’ south countree
A straighter rider! Who can break in
A wild colt better nor he?
Forget my sister Roma, whose eyes
Are violets seen thro’ veils
O’ mist; forget her voice, an’ her way
O’ tellin’ owd sorrowful tales!
Forget t’ round hill wheer my mother sleeps,
Wheer a tide o’ wild flowers rise!
I’d as lief forget my Duvlo leets
Up mornin’ an’ evenin’ skies.
Thoo’s gi’en me wonnerful jewels an’ cleeas,
But as I sit in thi hall,
I’se terrible fain to be wheer winds
Whistle thro’ hedge an’ wall.
Can thoo call hounds off when t’ scent’s breast high?
Or larn a linnet to trill?
Or forbid a Romany heart to roam
At t’ whisper o’ lile April?
(Dorothy Una Ratcliffe)
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