I niver heerd its name; we call it just "Our beck."
Mebbe, there's bigger streams down Ripon way;
But if thou wants clean watter, by my neck!
Thou'll travel far for cleaner, ony day.

Clear watter! Why, when t' sun is up i' t' sky,
I've seen yon flickerin' shadows o' lile trout
Glidin' ower t' shingly boddom. Step thou nigh,
An' gloor at t' minnows dartin' in an' out.

Our beck flows straight frae slacks o' moorland peat,
An' gethers sweetness out o' t' ling an' gorse;
At first its voice sounds weantly(1) saft an' leet,
But graws i' strength wi' lowpin ower yon force.

Then thou sud see the birds alang its banks--
Grey heronsews, that coom to fish at dawn;
Dippers, that under t' watter play sike pranks,
An' lang-nebbed curlews, swaimish(2) as a fawn.

Soomtimes I've seen young otters leave their holes,
An' laik like kitlins ower the silver dew;
An' I've watched squirrels climmin' up the boles
O' beech trees, lowpin' leet frae beugh to beugh.

Fowers! Why, thou'd fill thy skep,(3) lass, in an hour,
Wi' gowlands, paigles, blobs,(4) an' sike-like things;
We've daffydills to deck a bridal bower,
Pansies, wheer lady-cows(5) can dry their wings.