Amid the whirl of weary life—I hear it o'er and o'er,
That plaintive well-loved lullaby—the old weir's distant roar:
It gilds the cloud of daily toil with sunshine's fitful gleams,
It breaks upon my slumber, and I hear it in my dreams:
Like music of the good old times, it strikes upon mine ear—
If there's an air can banish care, 'tis that of Blankton Weir!
I know the river's rushing, but it rushes not for me,
I feel the morning blushing, though I am not there to see;
For younger hearts now live and love where once we used to dwell,
And others laugh, and dream, and sing, in spots we loved so well;