Brookwell
Well,
I
do
zay
'tis
wo'th
woone's
while
To
beät
the
doust
a
good
six
mile
To
zee
the
pleäce
the
squier
plann'd
At
Brookwell,
now
a-meäde
by
hand;
Wi'
oben
lawn,
an'
grove,
an'
pon',
An'
gravel-walks
as
cleän
as
bron;
An'
grass
a'most
so
soft
to
tread
As
velvet-pile
o'
silken
thread;
An'
mounds
wi'
mæsh,
an'
rocks
wi'
flow'rs,
An'
ivy-sheäded
zummer
bow'rs,
An'
dribblèn
water
down
below
The
stwonèn
archès
lofty
bow.
An'
there
do
sound
the
watervall
Below
a
cavern's
maeshy
wall,
Where
peäle-green
light
do
struggle
down
A
leafy
crevice
at
the
crown.
An'
there
do
gush
the
foamy
bow
O'
water,
white
as
driven
snow:
An'
there,
a
zittèn
all
alwone,
A
little
maïd
o'
marble
stwone
Do
leän
her
little
cheäk
azide
Upon
her
lily
han',
an'
bide
Bezide
the
vallèn
stream
to
zee
Her
pitcher
vill'd
avore
her
knee.
An'
then
the
brook,
a-rollèn
dark
Below
a
leänèn
yew-tree's
bark,
Wi'
plaÿsome
ripples
that
do
run
A-flashèn
to
the
western
zun,
Do
shoot,
at
last,
wi'
foamy
shocks,
Athirt
a
ledge
o'
craggy
rocks,
A-castèn
in
his
heästy
flight,
Upon
the
stwones
a
robe
o'
white;
An'
then
ageän
do
goo
an'
vall
Below
a
bridge's
archèd
wall,
Where
vo'k
agwaïn
athirt
do
pass
Vow'r
little
bwoys
a-cast
in
brass;
An'
woone
do
hold
an
angler's
wand,
Wi'
steady
hand,
above
the
pond;
An'
woone,
a-pweïntèn
to
the
stream
His
little
vinger-tip,
do
seem
A-showèn
to
his
playmeätes'
eyes,
Where
he
do
zee
the
vishes
rise;
An'
woone
ageän,
wi'
smilèn
lips,
Do
put
a
vish
his
han'
do
clips
'Ithin
a
basket,
loosely
tied
About
his
shoulder
at
his
zide:
An'
after
that
the
fourth
do
stand
A-holdèn
back
his
pretty
hand
Behind
his
little
ear,
to
drow
A
stwone
upon
the
stream
below.
An'
then
the
housèn,
that
be
all
Sich
pretty
hwomes,
vrom
big
to
small,
A-lookèn
south,
do
cluster
round
A
zunny
ledge
o'
risèn
ground,
Avore
a
wood,
a-nestled
warm,
In
lewth
ageän
the
northern
storm,
Where
smoke,
a-wreathèn
blue,
do
spread
Above
the
tuns
o'
dusky
red,
An'
window-peänes
do
glitter
bright
Wi'
burnèn
streams
o'
zummer
light,
Below
the
vine,
a-traïn'd
to
hem
Their
zides
'ithin
his
leafy
stem,
An'
rangle
on,
wi'
flutt'rèn
leaves,
Below
the
houses'
thatchen
eaves.
An'
drough
a
lawn
a-spread
avore
The
windows,
an'
the
pworchèd
door,
A
path
do
wind
'ithin
a
hatch,
A-vastèn'd
wi'
a
clickèn
latch,
An'
there
up
over
ruf
an'
tun,
Do
stan'
the
smooth-wall'd
church
o'
stwone,
Wi'
carvèd
windows,
thin
an'
tall,
A-reachèn
up
the
lofty
wall;
An'
battlements,
a-stannèn
round
The
tower,
ninety
veet
vrom
ground,
Vrom
where
a
teäp'rèn
speer
do
spring
So
high's
the
mornèn
lark
do
zing.
Zoo
I
do
zay
'tis
wo'th
woone's
while
To
beät
the
doust
a
good
six
mile,
To
zee
the
pleäce
the
squier
plann'd
At
Brookwell,
now
a-meäde
by
hand.
