The sheaedeless 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 laggen moon mid fail 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 evenen sheaedes that trees cast down
Vrom lofty stems athirt the groun';
An' in at house the mug went roun',
While ev'ry merry man prais'd up
The pretty maid that vill'd his cup,
The maid o' Grenley Water.
There I do seem ageaen 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 blushen look,
Car on her pail, or come to dip
Wi' ceaereful step, her pitcher's lip
Down into Grenley Water.
If I'd a farm wi' vower ploughs,
An' vor my deaeiry 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 growen pride
Should ever meaeke me cast azide
The maid o' Grenley Water.