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 leän 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 slay thee even in thy bloom,
  Fair small-feäced flower o' the Frome.