Her breast wi' aïr o' thik dear pleäce?
Or zee dark locks by such a brow,
Or het o' plaÿ on such a feäce?
No! She's now staïd,
An' where she plaÿ'd,
There's noo such maïd that now ha' took
The pleäce that she ha' long vorsook,
Though clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour,
Wi' whirlèn stwone an' streamèn flour,
Do goo the mill by cloty Stour.