Second Collection. The Water Crowvoot
O’ small-feäc’d flow’r that now dost bloom To stud wi’ white the shallow Frome, An’ leäve the clote to spread his flow’r On darksome pools o’ stwoneless Stour, When sof’ly-rizèn aïrs do cool The water in the sheenèn pool, Thy beds o’ snow-white buds do gleam So feäir upon the sky-blue stream, As whitest clouds, a-hangèn high Avore the blueness o’ the sky; An’ there, at hand, the thin-heäir’d cows, In aïry sheädes o’ withy boughs, Or up bezide the mossy raïls, Do stan’ an’ zwing their heavy taïls, The while the ripplèn stream do flow Below the dousty bridge’s bow; An’ quiv’rèn water-gleams do mock The weäves, upon the sheäded rock; An’ up athirt the copèn stwone The laïtren bwoy do lean alwone, A-watchèn, wi’ a stedvast look, The vallèn waters in the brook, The while the zand o’ time do run An’ leäve his errand still undone. An’ oh! as long’s thy buds would gleam Above the softly-slidèn stream, While sparklèn zummer-brooks do run Below the lofty-climèn zun, I only wish that thou could’st staÿ Vor noo man’s harm, an’ all men’s jaÿ. But no, the waterman ’ull weäde Thy water wi’ his deadly bleäde, To slaÿ thee even in thy bloom, Fair small-feäced flower o’ the Frome.
William Barnes’s other poems:
