My Wynder. Poem by Samuel Bamford

Where Gerrard's stream, with pearly gleam,
Runs down in gay meander,
A weaver boy, bereft of joy,
Upon a time did wander.
'Ah! well a day,' the youth did say,
'I wish I did not mind her,
I'm sure had she regarded me,
I ne'er had lost my wynder.

Her ready hand was white as milk,
Her fingers finely moulded,
And when she touch'd a thread of silk,
Like magic it was folded.
She turn'd her wheel, she sang her song,
And sometimes I have join'd her,
Oh that one strain would wake again
From thee my lovely wynder.

And when the worsted hank she wound,
Her skill was further proved,
No thread uneven there was found,
Her bobbins never roved.
With sweet content, to work she went,
And looked not behind her,
With fretful eye for ills to spy;
But now I've lost my wynder.

And never would she let me wait
When downing on a Friday,
Her wheel went at a merry rate,
Her person always tidy.
But she is gone, and I'm alone,
I know not where to find her,
I've sought the hill, the wood and rill,
No tidings of my wynder.

I've sought her at the dawn of day,
I've sought her at the noonin',
I've sought her when the evening grey
Had brought the hollow moon in.
I've call'd her on the darkest night
With wizard spells to bind her,
And when the stars arose in light,
I've wander'd forth to find her.
Her hair was like the raven's plume
And hung in tresses bonny,
Her checks so fair did roses bear
That blush'd as sweet as ony.
With slender waist and carriage chaste,
Her looks were daily kinder,
I mourn and rave, and cannot weave
Since I have lost my wynder.