Saw you come down the shale, love,
the stones black in the rain.
In your hand a kerchief,
in that plain bread.
Your frock’s all frayed,
your face white as thistle hair.
And the wildness in your face, love,
and the cold stood there.
Come down to the mill’s lamps,
a May morning.
Peewit cried on the clover.
Saw you turn and turn.
Rain on the running hill’s back,
rain on the mill’s black side.
Nowt but trouble ails you,
you’re no bugger else’s bride.
The lovers meet in the marshland,
the lovers meet in the sky.
There’s no one comes to meet you
on the black pit’s other side.
But your face so pale and sleek, love,
and your eyes like a bird’s, so sharp.
There was hunger enough till now, love,
but now there’s never enough.