O jaÿ betide the dear wold mill,
My naïghbour plaÿmeätes’ happy hwome,
Wi’ rollèn wheel, an’ leäpèn foam,
Below the overhangèn hill,
Where, wide an’ slow,
The stream did flow,
An’ flags did grow, an’ lightly vlee
Below the grey-leav’d withy tree,
While clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour,
Wi’ whirlèn stwone, an’ streamèn flour,
Did goo the mill by cloty Stour.
An’ there in geämes by evenèn skies,
When Meäry zot her down to rest,
The broach upon her pankèn breast,
Did quickly vall an’ lightly rise,
While swans did zwim
In steätely trim.
An’ swifts did skim the water, bright
Wi’ whirlèn froth, in western light;
An’ clack, clack, clack, that happy hour,
Wi’ whirlèn stwone, an’ streamèn flour,
Did goo the mill by cloty Stour.
Now mortery jeints, in streaks o’ white,
Along the geärdèn wall do show
In Maÿ, an’ cherry boughs do blow,
Wi’ bloomèn tutties, snowy white,
Where rollèn round,
Wi’ rumblèn sound,
The wheel woonce drown’d the vaïce so dear
To me. I faïn would goo to hear
The clack, clack, clack, vor woone short hour,
Wi’ whirlèn stwone, an’ streamèn flour,
Bezide the mill on cloty Stour.
But should I vind a-heavèn now
Her breast wi’ aïr o’ thik dear pleäce?
Or zee dark locks by such a brow,
Or het o’ plaÿ on such a feäce?
No! She’s now staïd,
An’ where she plaÿ’d,
There’s noo such maïd that now ha’ took
The pleäce that she ha’ long vorsook,
Though clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour,
Wi’ whirlèn stwone an’ streamèn flour,
Do goo the mill by cloty Stour.
An’ still the pulley rwope do heist
The wheat vrom red-wheeled waggon beds.
An’ ho’ses there wi’ lwoads of grist,
Do stand an’ toss their heavy heads;
But on the vloor,
Or at the door,
Do show noo mwore the kindly feäce
Her father show’d about the pleäce,
As clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour,
Wi’ whirlèn stwone, an’ streamèn flour,
Did goo his mill by cloty Stour.
—————
The End
And that’s the End of the Poem
© Poetry Monster, 2021.
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