THE OLD MILL ON THE DUNK

The floods of fifty years have swept The last sad remnants far away; The broken dam alone hath kept

Its crumbling line of green and gray. Yon lusty willow swells its trunk

Where stood the old mill on the Dunk.

Yon ancient bush! whose roots are mined By Dunk’s inpatient April flood: Around whose gnarled trunk are twined The peavine wild and rose in bud: Was youngest, greenest in the glade, When here the miller’s children played.

Beside the stream the alders spring And water-grasses, bending low, — And swallows skim, with careless wing, Down where the gentle cow-slips grow: While lingering Dunk winds on between Dark, shady woods and pastures green.

I came one day, when days were long, To dream an idle hour away: And lo! the rythmic river’s song Was of that distant, earlier day When, captive to the master’s will, The harnessed waters turned the mill.

It sang to me of bygone days;

Of men, long dead, who came to mill; Of homespun coats and homely ways; Of simple cheer and right good will; Of labours sad and blithesome moods, When battling with the ancient woods.

It told of days of weary toil,

And nights with small surcease of care, Where grew the delvers of the soil — The farmer’s children strong and fair; Of every household’s frugal board Replenished from the miller’s hoard.

It sang of two who walked upon Its banks, when Love’s young pulse beat fast. But many a spring have come and gone, And many a summer’s bloom hath passed, Since, side by side, in earth’s cold breast Their wintery heads were laid to rest.

All, all are gone, and, like the mill. Are drifted down the stream of Time. But here the river murmurs still I ts ever changing, changeless rhyme In music-mingled mirth and tears - The story of our pioneers.

Webster Rogers

Note: Wesley Webster Rogers was born in 1872, the son of Joseph and Fannie (Webster) Rogers of Wilmot Valley. Many of his poems were printed in the Island Magazine in the early 19005. He died at Tacoma, Wash., USA. in 1962.

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