While zuns do roll vrom east to west
To bring us work, or leäve us rest,
There down below the steep hill-zide,
Drough time an’ tide, the spring do flow;
An’ mothers there, vor years a-gone,
Lik’ daughters now a-comèn on,
To bloom when they be weak an’ wan,
Went down the steps vor water.
An’ what do yonder ringers tell
A-ringèn changes, bell by bell;
Or what’s a-show’d by yonder zight
O’ vo’k in white, upon the road,
But that by John o’ Woodleys zide,
There’s now a-blushèn vor his bride,
A pretty maïd that vu’st he spied,
Gwaïn down the steps vor water.
Though she, ’tis true, is feäir an’ kind,
There still be mwore a-left behind;
So cleän ‘s the light the zun do gi’e,
So sprack ‘s a bee when zummer’s bright;
An’ if I’ve luck, I woont be slow
To teäke off woone that I do know,
A-trippèn gaïly to an’ fro,
Upon the steps vor water.
Her father idden poor–but vew
In parish be so well to do;
Vor his own cows do swing their taïls
Behind his païls, below his boughs:
An’ then ageän to win my love,
Why, she’s as hwomely as a dove,
An’ don’t hold up herzelf above
Gwaïn down the steps vor water.
Gwaïn down the steps vor water! No!
How handsome it do meäke her grow.
If she’d be straïght, or walk abrode,
To tread her road wi’ comely gaït,
She coulden do a better thing
To zet herzelf upright, than bring
Her pitcher on her head, vrom spring
Upon the steps, wi’ water.
No! don’t ye neäme in woone seäme breath
Wi’ bachelors, the husband’s he’th;
The happy pleäce, where vingers thin
Do pull woone’s chin, or pat woone’s feäce.
But still the bleäme is their’s, to slight
Their happiness, wi’ such a zight
O’ maïdens, mornèn, noon, an’ night,
A-gwaïn down steps vor water.
—————
The End
And that’s the End of the Poem
© Poetry Monster, 2021.
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