A-tried at Woak Hill.
But no; that my Mary mid never
Behold herself slighted
I wanted to think that I guided
My guide from Woak Hill."
Barnes saw the pathos in the joy of utter physical weariness of a labourer, and one of his finest poems depicts a cottage under a swaying poplar:
"An' hands a-tired by day, were still,
Wi' moonlight on the door."
He always has that deep, quiet craving for the hearth, the fire, the protecting thatch of a cottage, which gives his work a pathetic touch. I think sometimes that Barnes must have been nearer to being cold, homeless and tired at times than is generally understood.