Chapter 10

The pauky auld Carle come ovir the lee Wi' mony good-eens and days to mee, Saying, Good wife, for zour courtesie, Will ze lodge a silly poor man? The night was cauld, the carle was wat, And down azont the ingle he sat; My dochtors shoulders he gan to clap, And cadgily ranted and sang.

O wow! quo he, were I as free, As first when I saw this countrie, How blyth and merry wad I bee! And I wad nevir think lang. He grew canty, and she grew fain; But little did her auld minny ken What thir slee twa togither were say'n, When wooing they were sa thrang.

And O! quo he, ann ze were as black, As evir the crown of your dadyes hat, Tis I wad lay thee by my backe, And awa wi' me thou sould gang. And O! quoth she, ann I were as white, As evir the snaw lay on the dike, Ild dead me braw, and lady-like, And awa with thee Ild gang.

Between them twa was made a plot; They raise a wee before the cock, And wyliely they shot the lock, And fast to the bent are they gane. Up the morn the auld wife raise, And at her leisure put on her claiths, Syne to the servants bed she gaes To speir for the silly poor man.

She gaed to the bed, whair the beggar lay, The strae was cauld, he was away, She clapt her hands, cryd, Dulefu' day! For some of our geir will be gane. Some ran to coffer, and some to kist, But nought was stown that could be mist. She dancid her lane, cryd, Praise be blest, I have lodgd a leal poor man.

Since naithings awa, as we can learn, The kirns to kirn, and milk to earn, Gae butt the house, lass, and waken my bairn, And bid her come quickly ben. The servant gaed where the dochter lay, The sheets was cauld, she was away, And fast to her goodwife can say, Shes aff with the gaberlunzie-man.

O fy gar ride, and fy gar rin, And haste ze, find these traitors agen; For shees be burnt, and hees be slein, The wearyfou gaberlunzie-man. Some rade upo horse, some ran a fit The wife was wood, and out o' her wit; She could na gang, nor yet could sit, But ay did curse and did ban.

Mean time far hind out owre the lee, For snug in a glen, where nane could see, The twa, with kindlie sport and glee Cut frae a new cheese a whang. The priving was gude, it pleas'd them baith, To lo'e her for ay, he gae her his aith. Quo she, to leave thee, I will laith, My winsome gaberlunzie-man.

O kend my minny I were wi' zou, Illfardly wad she crook her mou, Sic a poor man sheld nevir trow, Aftir the gaberlunzie-mon. My dear, quo he, zee're zet owre zonge; And hae na learnt the beggars tonge, To follow me frae toun to toun, And carrie the gaberlunzie on.

Wi' kauk and keel, Ill win zour bread, And spindles and whorles for them wha need, Whilk is a gentil trade indeed The gaberlunzie to carrie--o. Ill bow my leg and crook my knee, And draw a black clout owre my ee, A criple or blind they will cau me: While we sail sing and be merrie--o.

THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL

There lived a wife at Usher's Well, And a wealthy wife was she; She had three stout and stalwart sons, And sent them oer the sea.

They hadna been a week from her, A week but barely ane, Whan word came to the carline wife That her three sons were gane.

They hadna been a week from her, A week but barely three, Whan word came to the carlin wife That her sons she'd never see.

"I wish the wind may never cease, Nor fashes in the flood, Till my three sons come hame to me, In earthly flesh and blood."

It fell about the Martinmass, When nights are lang and mirk, The carlin wife's three sons came hame, And their hats were o the birk.

It neither grew in syke nor ditch, Nor yet in ony sheugh; But at the gates o Paradise, That birk grew fair eneugh.

* * * * *

"Blow up the fire, my maidens, Bring water from the well; For a' my house shall feast this night, Since my three sons are well."

And she has made to them a bed, She's made it large and wide, And she's taen her mantle her about, Sat down at the bed-side.

* * * * *

Up then crew the red, red cock, And up and crew the gray; The eldest to the youngest said, 'Tis time we were away.

The cock he hadna crawd but once, And clappd his wings at a', When the youngest to the eldest said, Brother, we must awa.

"The cock doth craw, the day doth daw, The channerin worm doth chide; Gin we be mist out o our place, A sair pain we maun bide.

"Fare ye weel, my mother dear! Fareweel to barn and byre! And fare ye weel, the bonny lass That kindles my mother's fire!"

THE LYE

Goe, soule, the bodies guest, Upon a thanklesse arrant; Feare not to touche the best, The truth shall be thy warrant: Goe, since I needs must dye, And give the world the lye.

Goe tell the court, it glowes And shines like rotten wood; Goe tell the church it showes What's good, and doth no good: If church and court reply, Then give them both the lye.

Tell potentates they live Acting by others actions; Not lov'd unlesse they give, Not strong but by their factions; If potentates reply, Give potentates the lye.

Tell men of high condition, That rule affairs of state, Their purpose is ambition, Their practise onely hate; And if they once reply, Then give them all the lye.

Tell them that brave it most, They beg for more by spending, Who in their greatest cost Seek nothing but commending; And if they make reply, Spare not to give the lye.

Tell zeale, it lacks devotion; Tell love, it is but lust; Tell time, it is but motion; Tell flesh, it is but dust; And wish them not reply, For thou must give the lye.

Tell age, it daily wasteth; Tell honour, how it alters: Tell beauty, how she blasteth; Tell favour, how she falters; And as they shall reply, Give each of them the lye.

Tell wit, how much it wrangles In tickle points of nicenesse; Tell wisedome, she entangles Herselfe in over-wisenesse; And if they do reply, Straight give them both the lye.

Tell physicke of her boldnesse; Tell skill, it is pretension; Tell charity of coldness; Tell law, it is contention; And as they yield reply, So give them still the lye.

Tell fortune of her blindnesse; Tell nature of decay; Tell friendship of unkindnesse; Tell justice of delay: And if they dare reply, Then give them all the lye.

Tell arts, they have no soundnesse, But vary by esteeming; Tell schooles, they want profoundnesse; And stand too much on seeming: If arts and schooles reply. Give arts and schooles the lye.

Tell faith, it's fled the citie; Tell how the countrey erreth; Tell, manhood shakes off pitie; Tell, vertue least preferreth: And, if they doe reply, Spare not to give the lye.

So, when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing, Although to give the lye Deserves no less than stabbing, Yet stab at thee who will, No stab the soule can kill.

THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL

I.

He did not wear his scarlet coat, For blood and wine are red, And blood and wine were on his hands When they found him with the dead, The poor dead woman whom he loved, And murdered in her bed.

He walked amongst the Trial Men In a suit of shabby grey; A cricket cap was on his head, And his step seemed light and gay; But I never saw a man who looked So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue Which prisoners call the sky, And at every drifting cloud that went With sails of silver by.

I walked, with other souls in pain, Within another ring, And was wondering if the man had done A great or little thing, When a voice behind me whispered low, _"That fellow's got to swing."_

Dear Christ! the very prison walls Suddenly seemed to reel, And the sky above my head became Like a casque of scorching steel; And, though I was a soul in pain, My pain I could not feel.

I only knew what hunted thought Quickened his step, and why He looked upon the garish day With such a wistful eye; The man had killed the thing he loved, And so he had to die.

* * * * *

Yet each man kills the thing he loves, By each let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word. The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young, And some when they are old; Some strangle with the hands of Lust, Some with the hands of Gold: The kindest use a knife, because The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long, Some sell, and others buy; Some do the deed with many tears, And some without a sigh: For each man kills the thing he loves, Yet each man does not die.

He does not die a death of shame On a day of dark disgrace, Nor have a noose about his neck, Nor a cloth upon his face, Nor drop feet foremost through the floor Into an empty space.

He does not sit with silent men Who watch him night and day; Who watch him when he tries to weep, And when he tries to pray; Who watch him lest himself should rob The prison of its prey.

He does not wake at dawn to see Dread figures throng his room, The shivering Chaplain robed in white, The Sheriff stern with gloom, And the Governor all in shiny black, With the yellow face of Doom.

He does not rise in piteous haste To put on convict-clothes, While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes Each new and nerve-twitched pose, Fingering a watch whose little ticks Are like horrible hammer-blows.

He does not feel that sickening thirst That sands one's throat, before The hangman with his gardener's gloves Comes through the padded door, And binds one with three leathern thongs, That the throat may thirst no more.

He does not bend his head to hear The Burial Office read, Nor, while the anguish of his soul Tells him he is not dead, Cross his own coffin, as he moves Into the hideous shed.

He does not stare upon the air Through a little roof of glass: He does not pray with lips of clay For his agony to pass; Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek The kiss of Caiaphas.

II

Six weeks the guardsman walked the yard In the suit of shabby grey: His cricket cap was on his head, And his step seemed light and gay, But I never saw a man who looked So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue Which prisoners call the sky, And at every wandering cloud that trailed Its ravelled fleeces by.

He did not wring his hands, as do Those witless men who dare To try to rear the changeling In the cave of black Despair: He only looked upon the sun, And drank the morning air.

He did not wring his hands nor weep, Nor did he peek or pine, But he drank the air as though it held Some healthful anodyne; With open mouth he drank the sun As though it had been wine!

And I and all the souls in pain, Who tramped the other ring, Forgot if we ourselves had done A great or little thing, And watched with gaze of dull amaze The man who had to swing.

For strange it was to see him pass With a step so light and gay, And strange it was to see him look So wistfully at the day, And strange it was to think that he Had such a debt to pay.

* * * * *

For oak and elm have pleasant leaves That in the spring-time shoot: But grim to see is the gallows-tree, With its adder-bitten root, And, green or dry, a man must die Before it bears its fruit!

The loftiest place is that seat of grace For which all worldlings try: But who would stand in hempen band Upon a scaffold high, And through a murderer's collar take His last look at the sky?

It is sweet to dance to violins When Love and Life are fair: To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes Is delicate and rare: But it is not sweet with nimble feet To dance upon the air!

So with curious eyes and sick surmise We watched him day by day, And wondered if each one of us Would end the self-same way, For none can tell to what red Hell His sightless soul may stray.

At last the dead man walked no more Amongst the Trial Men, And I knew that he was standing up In the black dock's dreadful pen, And that never would I see his face For weal or woe again.

Like two doomed ships that pass in storm We had crossed each other's way: But we made no sign, we said no word, We had no word to say; For we did not meet in the holy night, But in the shameful day.

A prison wall was round us both, Two outcast men we were: The world had thrust us from its heart, And God from out His care: And the iron gin that waits for Sin Had caught us in its snare.

III.

In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard, And the dripping wall is high, So it was there he took the air Beneath the leaden sky, And by each side a Warder walked, For fear the man might die.

Or else he sat with those who watched His anguish night and day; Who watched him when he rose to weep, And when he crouched to pray; Who watched him lest himself should rob Their scaffold of its prey.

The Governor was strong upon The Regulations Act: The Doctor said that Death was but A scientific fact: And twice a day the Chaplain called, And left a little tract.

And twice a day he smoked his pipe, And drank his quart of beer: His soul was resolute, and held No hiding-place for fear; He often said that he was glad The hangman's day was near.

But why he said so strange a thing No warder dared to ask: For he to whom a watcher's doom Is given as his task, Must set a lock upon his lips And make his face a mask.

Or else he might be moved, and try To comfort or console: And what should Human Pity do Pent up in Murderer's Hole? What word of grace in such a place Could help a brother's soul?

With slouch and swing around the ring We trod the Fools' Parade! We did not care: we knew we were The Devil's Own Brigade: And shaven head and feet of lead Make a merry masquerade.

We tore the tarry rope to shreds With blunt and bleeding nails; We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors, And cleaned the shining rails: And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank, And clattered with the pails.

We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones, We turned the dusty drill: We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns, And sweated on the mill: But in the heart of every man Terror was lying still.

So still it lay that every day Crawled like a weed-clogged wave: And we forgot the bitter lot That waits for fool and knave, Till once, as we tramped in from work, We passed an open grave.

With yawning mouth the yellow hole Gaped for a living thing; The very mud cried out for blood To the thirsty asphalte ring: And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair Some prisoner had to swing.

Right in we went, with soul intent On Death and Dread and Doom: The hangman, with his little bag, Went shuffling through the gloom: And I trembled as I groped my way Into my numbered tomb.

* * * * *

That night the empty corridors Were full of forms of Fear, And up and down the iron town Stole feet we could not hear, And through the bars that hide the stars White faces seemed to peer.

He lay as one who lies and dreams In a pleasant meadow-land, The watchers watched him as he slept, And could not understand How one could sleep so sweet a sleep With a hangman close at hand.

But there is no sleep when men must weep Who never yet have wept: So we--the fool, the fraud, the knave-- That endless vigil kept, And through each brain on hands of pain Another's terror crept.

Alas! it is a fearful thing To feel another's guilt! For, right, within, the Sword of Sin Pierced to its poisoned hilt, And as molten lead were the tears we shed For the blood we had not spilt.

The warders with their shoes of felt Crept by each padlocked door, And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe, Grey figures on the floor, And wondered why men knelt to pray Who never prayed before.

All through the night we knelt and prayed, Mad mourners of a corse! The troubled plumes of midnight shook The plumes upon a hearse: And bitter wine upon a sponge Was the savour of Remorse.

* * * * *

The grey cock crew, the red cock crew, But never came the day: And crooked shapes of Terror crouched, In the corners where we lay: And each evil sprite that walks by night Before us seemed to play.

They glided past, they glided fast, Like travellers through a mist: They mocked the moon in a rigadoon Of delicate turn and twist, And with formal pace and loathsome grace The phantoms kept their tryst.

With mop and mow, we saw them go, Slim shadows hand in hand: About, about, in ghostly rout They trod a saraband: And the damned grotesques made arabesques, Like the wind upon the sand!

With the pirouettes of marionettes, They tripped on pointed tread: But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear, As their grisly masque they led, And loud they sang, and long they sang, For they sang to wake the dead.

_"Oho!" they cried, "The world is wide, But fettered limbs go lame! And once, or twice, to throw the dice Is a gentlemanly game, But he does not win who plays with Sin In the secret House of Shame."_

No things of air these antics were, That frolicked with such glee: To men whose lives were held in gyves, And whose feet might not go free, Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things, Most terrible to see.

Around, around, they waltzed and wound; Some wheeled in smirking pairs; With the mincing step of a demirep Some sidled up the stairs: And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer, Each helped us at our prayers.

The morning wind began to moan, But still the night went on: Through its giant loom the web of gloom Crept till each thread was spun: And, as we prayed, we grew afraid Of the Justice of the Sun.

The moaning wind went wandering round The weeping prison-wall: Till like a wheel of turning steel We felt the minutes crawl: O moaning wind! what had we done To have such a seneschal?

At last I saw the shadowed bars, Like a lattice wrought in lead, Move right across the whitewashed wall That faced my three-plank bed, And I knew that somewhere in the world God's dreadful dawn was red.

At six o'clock we cleaned our cells, At seven all was still, But the sough and swing of a mighty wing The prison seemed to fill, For the Lord of Death with icy breath Had entered in to kill.

He did not pass in purple pomp, Nor ride a moon-white steed. Three yards of cord and a sliding board Are all the gallows' need: So with rope of shame the Herald came To do the secret deed.

We were as men who through a fen Of filthy darkness grope: We did not dare to breathe a prayer, Or to give our anguish scope: Something was dead in each of us, And what was dead was Hope.

For Man's grim Justice goes its way, And will not swerve aside: It slays the weak, it slays the strong, It has a deadly stride: With iron heel it slays the strong, The monstrous parricide!

We waited for the stroke of eight: Each tongue was thick with thirst: For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate That makes a man accursed, And Fate will use a running noose For the best man and the worst.

We had no other thing to do, Save to wait for the sign to come: So, like things of stone in a valley lone, Quiet we sat and dumb: But each man's heart beat thick and quick, Like a madman on a drum!

With sudden shock the prison-clock Smote on the shivering air, And from all the gaol rose up a wail Of impotent despair, Like the sound that frightened marches hear From some leper in his lair.

And as one sees most fearful things In the crystal of a dream, We saw the greasy hempen rope Hooked to the blackened beam, And heard the prayer the hangman's snare Strangled into a scream.

And all the woe that moved him so That he gave that bitter cry, And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats, None knew so well as I: For he who lives more lives than one More deaths than one must die.

IV

There is no chapel on the day On which they hang a man: The Chaplain's heart is far too sick, Or his face is far too wan, Or there is that written in his eyes Which none should look upon.

So they kept us close till nigh on noon, And then they rang the bell, And the warders with their jingling keys Opened each listening cell, And down the iron stair we tramped, Each from his separate Hell.

Out into God's sweet air we went, But not in wonted way, For this man's face was white with fear, And that man's face was grey, And I never saw sad men who looked So wistfully at the day.

I never saw sad men who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue We prisoners called the sky, And at every happy cloud that passed In such strange freedom by.

But there were those amongst us all Who walked with downcast head, And knew that, had each got his due, They should have died instead: He had but killed a thing that lived, Whilst they had killed the dead.

For he who sins a second time Wakes a dead soul to pain, And draws it from its spotted shroud, And makes it bleed again, And makes it bleed great gouts of blood, And makes it bleed in vain!

* * * * *

Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb With crooked arrows starred, Silently we went round and round The slippery asphalte yard; Silently we went round and round, And no man spoke a word.

Silently we went round and round, And through each hollow mind The Memory of dreadful things Rushed like a dreadful wind, And Horror stalked before each man, And Terror crept behind.

* * * * *

The warders strutted up and down, And watched their herd of brutes, Their uniforms were spick and span, And they wore their Sunday suits, But we knew the work they had been at, By the quicklime on their boots.

For where a grave had opened wide, There was no grave at all: Only a stretch of mud and sand By the hideous prison-wall, And a little heap of burning lime, That the man should have his pall.

For he has a pall, this wretched man, Such as few men can claim: Deep down below a prison-yard, Naked for greater shame, He lies, with fetters on each foot, Wrapt in a sheet of flame!

And all the while the burning lime Eats flesh and bone away, It eats the brittle bone by night, And the soft flesh by day, It eats the flesh and bone by turns, But it eats the heart alway.

* * * *

For three long years they will not sow Or root or seedling there: For three long years the unblessed spot Will sterile be and bare, And look upon the wondering sky With unreproachful stare.