Peter Wray

No more I hear the waters roar,

Roused at the comin’ of the bore,

No more the river turns agen,

To sweep across the level fen;

No more the winds in fury ride

Along the marshes wild and wide

Afore the risin’ of the tide:

The waters roam no more.

No more I wade along the fen

For heron or for water hen,

Nor hug the bottom of my boat

As to the feeding ducks I'd float;

Nor ambushed laay wi’ rovin’ eye

To watch like specks agen the sky

The wild geese circlin’ on high:

The waters roam no more.

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.