Good Meäster Collins
A YE , Meäster Collins wer a-blest
Wi' greäce, an' now's a-gone to rest;
An' though his heart did beät so meek
'S a little child's, when he did speak,
The godly wisdom ov his tongue
Wer dew o' greäce to wold an' young.
'Twer woonce, upon a zummer's tide,
I zot at Brookwell by his zide,
Avore the leäke, upon the rocks,
Above the water's idle shocks,
As little plaÿèsome weäves did zwim
Ageän the water's windy brim,
Out where the lofty tower o' stwone
Did stan' to years o' wind an' zun;
An' where the zwellen pillars bore
A pworch above the heavy door,
Wi' sister sheädes a-reachen cool
Athirt the stwones an' sparklen pool.
I spoke zome word that meäde en smile,
O' girt vo'k's wealth an' poor vo'k's tweil,
As if I pin'd, vor want ov greäce,
To have a lord's or squier's pleäce
" No, no, " he zaid, " what God do zend
Is best vor all o's in the end,
An' all that we do need the mwost
Do come to us wi' leäst o' cost; —
Why, who could live upon the e'th
'Ithout God's gift ov air vor breath?
Or who could bide below the zun
If water didden rise an' run?
An' who could work below the skies
If zun an' moon did never rise?
Zoo air an' water, an' the light,
Be higher gifts, a-reckon'd right,
Than all the goold the darksome claÿè
Can ever yield to zunny daÿè:
But then the air is roun' our heads,
Abroad by day, or on our beds;
Where land do gi'e us room to bide,
Or seas do spread vor ships to ride;
An' He do zend his waters free,
Vrom clouds to lands, vrom lands to sea;
An' mornen light do blush an' glow,
'Ithout our tweil — 'ithout our ho.
" Zoo let us never pine, in sin,
Vor gifts that ben't the best to win;
The heaps o' goold that zome mid pile,
Wi' sleepless nights an' peaceless tweil;
Or manor that mid reach so wide
As Blackmwore is vrom zide to zide,
Or kingly swaÿè, wi' life or death,
Vor helpless childern ov the e'th:
Vor theäse ben't gifts, as He do know,
That He in love should vu'st bestow;
Or else we should have had our sheäre
O'm all wi' little tweil or ceäre.
" Ov all His choicest gifts, His cry
Is, " Come, ye moneyless, and buy."
Zoo blest is he that can but lift
His praÿèer vor a happy gift. "
Wi' greäce, an' now's a-gone to rest;
An' though his heart did beät so meek
'S a little child's, when he did speak,
The godly wisdom ov his tongue
Wer dew o' greäce to wold an' young.
'Twer woonce, upon a zummer's tide,
I zot at Brookwell by his zide,
Avore the leäke, upon the rocks,
Above the water's idle shocks,
As little plaÿèsome weäves did zwim
Ageän the water's windy brim,
Out where the lofty tower o' stwone
Did stan' to years o' wind an' zun;
An' where the zwellen pillars bore
A pworch above the heavy door,
Wi' sister sheädes a-reachen cool
Athirt the stwones an' sparklen pool.
I spoke zome word that meäde en smile,
O' girt vo'k's wealth an' poor vo'k's tweil,
As if I pin'd, vor want ov greäce,
To have a lord's or squier's pleäce
" No, no, " he zaid, " what God do zend
Is best vor all o's in the end,
An' all that we do need the mwost
Do come to us wi' leäst o' cost; —
Why, who could live upon the e'th
'Ithout God's gift ov air vor breath?
Or who could bide below the zun
If water didden rise an' run?
An' who could work below the skies
If zun an' moon did never rise?
Zoo air an' water, an' the light,
Be higher gifts, a-reckon'd right,
Than all the goold the darksome claÿè
Can ever yield to zunny daÿè:
But then the air is roun' our heads,
Abroad by day, or on our beds;
Where land do gi'e us room to bide,
Or seas do spread vor ships to ride;
An' He do zend his waters free,
Vrom clouds to lands, vrom lands to sea;
An' mornen light do blush an' glow,
'Ithout our tweil — 'ithout our ho.
" Zoo let us never pine, in sin,
Vor gifts that ben't the best to win;
The heaps o' goold that zome mid pile,
Wi' sleepless nights an' peaceless tweil;
Or manor that mid reach so wide
As Blackmwore is vrom zide to zide,
Or kingly swaÿè, wi' life or death,
Vor helpless childern ov the e'th:
Vor theäse ben't gifts, as He do know,
That He in love should vu'st bestow;
Or else we should have had our sheäre
O'm all wi' little tweil or ceäre.
" Ov all His choicest gifts, His cry
Is, " Come, ye moneyless, and buy."
Zoo blest is he that can but lift
His praÿèer vor a happy gift. "
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