Sunday Evening

THE noontide showers have drifted past, The sunset’s on the hill, The lights be gleaming through the dusk, Adown by Clincher’s Mill.

It’s such a pretty evening, maid, All quiet-like, and blue; With here and there a darksome cloud That lets the silver through.

The folk be all in Sunday best, I see’d ’em passing by; Then come along the quiet lane, And walk a bit with I.