William Barnes

First Collection. Summer. Rivers don’t gi’e out

The brook I left below the rank
Ov alders that do sheäde his bank,
A-runnèn down to dreve the mill
Below the knap, ’s a runnèn still;
The creepèn days an’ weeks do vill
 Up years, an’ meäke wold things o’ new,
 An’ vok’ do come, an’ live, an’ goo,
 But rivers don’t gi’e out, John.

The leaves that in the spring do shoot
Zo green, in fall be under voot;
Maÿ flow’rs do grow vor June to burn.
An’ milk-white blooth o’ trees do kern,
An’ ripen on, an’ vall in turn;
 The miller’s moss-green wheel mid rot,
 An’ he mid die an’ be vorgot,
 But rivers don’t gi’e out, John.

A vew short years do bring an’ rear
A maid—as Jeäne wer—young an’ feäir,
An’ vewer zummer-ribbons, tied
In Zunday knots, do feäde bezide
Her cheäk avore her bloom ha’ died:
 Her youth won’t staÿ,—her rwosy look
 ’S a feädèn flow’r, but time’s a brook
 To run an’ not gi’e out, John.

An’ yet, while things do come an’ goo,
God’s love is steadvast, John, an’ true;
If winter vrost do chill the ground,
’Tis but to bring the zummer round.
All’s well a-lost where He’s a-vound,
 Vor if ’tis right, vor Christes seäke
 He’ll gi’e us mwore than he do teäke,—
 His goodness don’t gi’e out, John.