No more I creep, nor crouchin', run,
Nor trail my owd long-barrelled gun
Nor listen 'ow the water laps
About my sunken fishin' traps;
'Tis eighty year sin, as a boy,
I first 'elped at the duck decoy,
An' now—I know but little joy:
The waters roam no more.
My feyther knew the hidden ways,
Across the waste and marshy maze,
He knew each haunt of bird an' fish,
An' how to find 'em at his wish;
While sometimes in his punt he'd sing
Until the reedy dykes'd ring,
But now's the end of everything:
The waters roam no more.
When, on a stormy winter's night
There stirs a noise, or sudden light,
I lay an' pant, to hear 'em shout
In panic 'coz the water's out;
For long I look, an' anxious strain;
Alas! my hope is allers vain,
An' sad I go to sleep again:
The waters roam no more.
No more the waters roam the land,
But hid away on every hand
Are led in channels to the sea,
Instead of flowin' fancy free,
Instead of roarin' fierce an' wild
The same as when I wor a child,
They creep imprisoned an' defiled:
The waters roam no more.
Oh Fools
Oh Fools! who plough, with hunger faint;
Who reap the harvest, lacking grain;
Oh Sheep! who offer no complaint;
Oh Worms! who dare not turn again.
The farmer leads the best of lives,
His food pours in: abundant feast;
Full fed upon your sweat he thrives;
And you—and you—are but a beast!
Each day you tend the growing corn,
'The ox shall not be muzzled'—True!
All animals must have their turn;
But less than any beast are you!
The horse is stabled, dry and warm,
His food is measured, manger-full;
The sheep is valued on the farm,
A price is found for meat and wool.