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 yellow water-lily

On darksome pools o’ stwoneless Stour,

When sof'ly-rizèn aïrs do cool

The water in the sheenèn pool, shining

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, shadows, willow

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; dusty, arch

An’ quiv'rèn water-gleams do mock mimic

The weäves, upon the sheäded rock;

An’ up athirt the copèn stwone across

The laïtren bwoy do leän alwone, loitering

A-watchèn, wi’ a stedvast look,

The vallèn waters in the brook, falling

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, high-climbing

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 slaÿ thee even in thy bloom,

Fair small-feäced flower o’ the Frome.