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-hke, 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.