Grenley Water

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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.

© William Barnes