The brook I left below the rank
Ov alders that do sheaede his bank,
A-runnen down to dreve the mill
Below the knap, 's a runnen still;
The creepen days an' weeks do vill
Up years, an' meaeke wold things o' new,
An' vok' do come, an' live, an' goo,
But rivers don't gi'e out, John.
The leaves that in the spring do shoot
Zo green, in fall be under voot;
May flow'rs do grow vor June to burn,
An' milk-white blooth o' trees do kern,
An' ripen on, an' vall in turn;
The miller's moss-green wheel mid rot,
An' he mid die an' be vorgot,
But rivers don't gi'e out, John.
A vew short years do bring an' rear
A maid—as Jeaene wer—young an' feaeir,
An' vewer zummer-ribbons, tied
In Zunday knots, do feaede bezide
Her cheaek avore her bloom ha' died:
Her youth won't stay,—her rwosy look
'S a feaeden flow'r, but time's a brook
To run an' not gi'e out, John.
An' yet, while things do come an' goo,
God's love is steadvast, John, an' true;
If winter vrost do chill the ground,
'Tis but to bring the zummer round,
All's well a-lost where He's a-vound,
Vor if 'tis right, vor Christes seaeke
He'll gi'e us mwore than he do teaeke,—
His goodness don't gi'e out, John.