William Barnes

First Collection. Fall. Grenley Water

The sheädeless darkness o’ the night
Can never blind my mem’ry’s zight;
An’ in the storm, my fancy’s eyes
Can look upon their own blue skies.
The laggèn moon mid faïl to rise,
 But when the daylight’s blue an’ green
 Be gone, my fancy’s zun do sheen
  At hwome at Grenley Water.

As when the work-vo’k us’d to ride
In waggon, by the hedge’s zide,
Drough evenèn sheädes that trees cast down
Vrom lofty stems athirt the groun’:
An’ in at house the mug went roun’,
 While ev’ry merry man praïs’d up
 The pretty maïd that vill’d his cup,
  The maïd o’ Grenley Water.

There I do seem ageän to ride
The hosses to the water-zide,
An’ zee the visher fling his hook
Below the withies by the brook;
Or Fanny, wi’ her blushèn look,
 Car on her païl, or come to dip
 Wi’ ceäreful step, her pitcher’s lip
  Down into Grenley Water.

If I’d a farm wi’ vower ploughs,
An’ vor my deäiry fifty cows;
If Grenley Water winded down
Drough two good miles o’ my own groun’;
If half ov Ashknowle Hill wer brown
 Wi’ my own corn,—noo growèn pride
 Should ever meäke me cast azide
  The maïd o’ Grenley Water.