Below the grey-leav'd withy tree,
While clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour,
Wi' whirlen stwone, an' streamen flour,
Did goo the mill by cloty Stour.

An' there in geaemes by evenen skies,
When Meaery zot her down to rest,
The broach upon her panken breast,
Did quickly vall an' lightly rise,
While swans did zwim
In steaetely trim.
An' swifts did skim the water, bright
Wi' whirlen froth, in western light;
An' clack, clack, clack, that happy hour,
Wi' whirlen stwone, an' streamen flour,
Did goo the mill by cloty Stour.

Now mortery jeints, in streaks o' white,
Along the geaerden wall do show
In May, an' cherry boughs do blow,
Wi' bloomen tutties, snowy white,
Where rollen round,
Wi' rumblen sound,
The wheel woonce drown'd the vaice so dear
To me. I fain would goo to hear
The clack, clack, clack, vor woone short hour,
Wi' whirlen stwone, an' streamen flour,
Bezide the mill on cloty Stour.

But should I vind a-heaven now
Her breast wi' air o' thik dear pleaece?
Or zee dark locks by such a brow,
Or het o' play on such a feaece?
No! She's now staid,
An' where she play'd,
There's noo such maid that now ha' took
The pleaece that she ha' long vorsook,
Though clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour,
Wi' whirlen stwone an' streamen 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 feaece
Her father show'd about the pleaece,
As clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour,
Wi' whirlen stwone, an' streamen flour,
Did goo his mill by cloty Stour.

THE LARK.

As I, below the mornen sky,
Wer out a worken in the lew
O' black-stemm'd thorns, a-springen high,
Avore the worold-bounden blue,
A-reaeken, under woak tree boughs,
The orts a-left behin' by cows.

Above the grey-grow'd thistle rings,
An' deaeisy-buds, the lark, in flight,
Did zing a-loft, wi' flappen wings,
Tho' mwore in heaeren than in zight;
The while my bwoys, in playvul me'th,
Did run till they wer out o' breath.

Then woone, wi' han'-besheaeded eyes,
A-stoppen still, as he did run,
Look'd up to zee the lark arise
A-zingen to the high-gon