Now the white owl flits o'er the dusky ground,
Foreruns the night, and makes his trumpet sound.
The winds are lull'd asleep, and now you hear
The murmuring stream hum slumber in your ear.
Sweet Row, flow on, and be thy little vale
The future glory of the happy tale;
Long be thy banks bespread as they are now
With nibbling sheep, or richer feeding cow;
With rock, and scar, and cottage on the hill,
With curling smoke, and busy useful mill;
Long may yon trees afford their leafy screen,
And long from winter save the fading green;
In every season in their speckled pride,
Safe may the trout through all thy windings glide;
Safe may the fowl adown thy waters swim,
Bathe the webb'd foot, or o'er thy mirror skim,
Nor yet the schoolboy cast the deadly stone,
And take that life, no frailer than his own;
For peace and plenty, and the cheerful tale,
For happy wives, for mirth, and honest ale,
For maidens fair, and swains of matchless truth,
And all the openness of artless youth,
Whene'er a Cumbrian Village shall be fam'd,
Let Stoklewath be not the last that's nam'd!