Chapter 2
As dusk set in, even the birds did seem To be calling and calling from out of a dream. He chopped up kindling, shut up his shed, In a bucket of well-water soused his head To freshen his eyes up a little and make The drowsy old wits of him wider awake. As neat as a womanless creature is able He swept up his hearthstone and laid the table. And then o'er his platter and mug, if you please, Sate gloomily gooming at loaf and cheese-- Gooming and gooming as if the mere sight Of his victuals could satisfy appetite! And the longer and longer he looked at them The slimmer slimmed upward his candle flame, Blue in the air. And when squeaked a mouse 'Twas loud as a trump in the hush of the house. Then, sudden, a soft little wind puffed by, 'Twixt the thick-thatched roof and the star-sown sky; And died. And then That deep, dead, wonderful silence again.
Then--soft as a rattle a-counting her seeds In the midst of a tangle of withered-up weeds-- Came a faint, faint knocking, a rustle like silk, And a breath at the keyhole as soft as milk-- Still as the flit of a moth. And then ... That infinitesimal knocking again.
Sam lifted his chin from his fists. He listened. His wandering eyes in the candle glistened. Then slowly, slowly, rolled round by degrees-- And there sat a mouse on the top of his cheese. He stared at this Midget, and it at him, Over the edge of his mug's round rim, And--as if it were Christian--he says, "Did 'ee hear A faint little tap-tap-tap-tapping, my dear? You was at supper and me in a maze 'Tis dark for a caller in these lone days, There's nowt in the larder. We're both of us old. And all of my loved ones sleep under the mould, And yet--and yet--as I've told 'ee before ..."
_But if Sam's story you'd read to the end, Turn back to page 1, and press onward, dear friend; Yes, if you would stave the last note of this song, Turn back to page primus, and warble along! For all sober records of life (come to write 'em), Are bound to continue--well--ad infinitum!_
PEAK AND PUKE
From his cradle in the glamourie They have stolen my wee brother, Roused a changeling in his swaddlings For to fret mine own poor mother. Pules it in the candle light Wi' a cheek so lean and white, Chinkling up its eyne so wee, Wailing shrill at her an' me. It we'll neither rock nor tend Till the Silent Silent send, Lapping in their waesome arms Him they stole with spells and charms, Till they take this changeling creature Back to its own fairy nature-- Cry! Cry! as long as may be, Ye shall ne'er be woman's baby!
THE CHANGELING
"Ahoy, and ahoy!" 'Twixt mocking and merry-- "Ahoy and ahoy, there, Young man of the ferry!" She stood on the steps In the watery gloom-- That Changeling--"Ahoy, there!" She called him to come. He came on the green wave, He came on the grey, Where stooped that sweet lady That still summer's day. He fell in a dream Of her beautiful face, As she sat on the thwart And smiled in her place. No echo his oar woke, Float silent did they, Past low-grazing cattle In the sweet of the hay. And still in a dream At her beauty sat he, Drifting stern foremost Down--down to the sea. Come you, then: call, When the twilight apace Brings shadow to brood On the loveliest face; You shall hear o'er the water Ring faint in the grey-- "Ahoy, and ahoy, there!" And tremble away; "Ahoy, and ahoy!..." And tremble away.
LOB LIE BY THE FIRE
He squats by the fire On his three-legged stool, When all in the house With slumber are full.
And he warms his great hands, Hanging loose from each knee. And he whistles as soft As the night wind at sea.
For his work now is done; All the water is sweet; He has turned each brown loaf, And breathed magic on it.
The milk in the pan, And the bacon on beam He has "spelled" with his thumb, And bewitched has the dream.
Not a mouse, not a moth, Not a spider but sat, And quaked as it wondered What next he'd be at.
But his heart, O, his heart-- It belies his great nose; And at gleam of his eye Not a soul would suppose
He had stooped with great thumbs, And big thatched head, To tuck his small mistress More snugly in bed.
Who would think, now, a throat So lank and so thin Might make birds seem to warble In the dream she is in!
Now hunched by the fire, While the embers burn low, He nods until daybreak, And at daybreak he'll go.
Soon the first cock will 'light From his perch and point high His beak at the Ploughboy Grown pale in the sky;
And crow will he shrill; Then, meek as a mouse, Lob will rouse up and shuffle Straight out of the house.
His supper for breakfast; For wages his work; And to warm his great hands Just an hour in the mirk.
BLUEBELLS
Where the bluebells and the wind are, Fairies in a ring I spied, And I heard a little linnet Singing near beside.
Where the primrose and the dew are-- Soon were sped the fairies all: Only now the green turf freshens, And the linnets call.
THE HONEY ROBBERS
There were two Fairies, Gimmul and Mel, Loved Earth Man's honey passing well; Oft at the hives of his tame bees They would their sugary thirst appease. When even began to darken to night, They would hie along in the fading light, With elf-locked hair and scarlet lips, And small stone knives to slit the skeps, So softly not a bee inside Should hear the woven straw divide. And then with sly and greedy thumbs Would rifle the sweet honeycombs. And drowsily drone to drone would say, "A cold, cold wind blows in this way"; And the great Queen would turn her head From face to face, astonishèd, And, though her maids with comb and brush Would comb and soothe and whisper, "Hush!" About the hive would shrilly go A keening--keening, to and fro; At which those robbers 'neath the trees Would taunt and mock the honey-bees, And through their sticky teeth would buzz Just as an angry hornet does. And when this Gimmul and this Mel Had munched and sucked and swilled their fill, Or ever Man's first cock could crow Back to their Faërie Mounds they'd go. Edging across the twilight air, Thieves of a guise remotely fair.
BERRIES
There was an old woman Went blackberry picking Along the hedges From Weep to Wicking. Half a pottle-- No more she had got, When out steps a Fairy From her green grot; And says, "Well, Jill, Would 'ee pick 'ee mo?" And Jill, she curtseys, And looks just so. "Be off," says the Fairy, "As quick as you can, Over the meadows To the little green lane, That dips to the hayfields Of Farmer Grimes: I've berried those hedges A score of times; Bushel on bushel I'll promise 'ee, Jill, This side of supper If 'ee pick with a will." She glints very bright, And speaks her fair; Then lo, and behold! She has faded in air.
Be sure old Goodie She trots betimes Over the meadows To Farmer Grimes. And never was queen With jewellry rich As those same hedges From twig to ditch; Like Dutchmen's coffers, Fruit, thorn, and flower-- They shone like William And Mary's bower. And be sure Old Goodie Went back to Weep, So tired with her basket She scarce could creep. When she comes in the dusk To her cottage door, There's Towser wagging As never before, To see his Missus So glad to be Come from her fruit-picking Back to he. As soon as next morning Dawn was grey, The pot on the hob Was simmering away; And all in a stew And a hugger-mugger Towser and Jill A-boiling of sugar, And the dark clear fruit That from Faërie came, For syrup and jelly And blackberry jam.
Twelve jolly gallipots Jill put by; And one little teeny one, One inch high; And that she's hidden A good thumb deep, Half way over From Wicking to Weep.
HAPPY, HAPPY IT IS TO BE
"Happy, happy it is to be Where the greenwood hangs o'er the dark blue sea; To roam in the moonbeams clear and still And dance with the elves Over dale and hill; To taste their cups, and with them roam The field for dewdrops and honeycomb. Climb then, and come, as quick as you can, And dwell with the fairies, Elizabeth Ann!
"Never, never, comes tear or sorrow, In the mansions old where the fairies dwell; But only the harping of their sweet harp-strings, And the lonesome stroke of a distant bell, Where upon hills of thyme and heather, The shepherd sits with his wandering sheep; And the curlew wails, and the skylark hovers Over the sand where the conies creep; Climb then, and come, as quick as you can, And dwell with the fairies, Elizabeth Ann!"
THE MIDDEN'S SONG
"Bubble, Bubble, Swim to see Oh, how beautiful I be.
"Fishes, Fishes, Finned and fine, What's your gold Compared with mine?
"Why, then, has Wise Tishnar made One so lovely, Yet so sad?
"Lone am I, And can but make A little song, For singing's sake."
ALL BUT BLIND
All but blind In his chambered hole Gropes for worms The four-clawed Mole.
All but blind In the evening sky The hooded Bat Twirls softly by.
All but blind In the burning day The Barn-Owl blunders On her way.
And blind as are These three to me, So, blind to Some-one I must be.
THE MOCKING FAIRY
"Won't you look out of your window, Mrs. Gill?" Quoth the Fairy, nidding, nodding in the garden; "_Can't_ you look out of your window, Mrs. Gill?" Quoth the Fairy, laughing softly in the garden; But the air was still, the cherry boughs were still, And the ivy-tod 'neath the empty sill, And never from her window looked out Mrs. Gill On the Fairy shrilly mocking in the garden.
"What have they done with you, you poor Mrs. Gill?" Quoth the Fairy, brightly glancing in the garden; "Where have they hidden you, you poor old Mrs. Gill?" Quoth the Fairy dancing lightly in the garden; But night's faint veil now wrapped the hill, Stark 'neath the stars stood the dead-still Mill, And out of her cold cottage never answered Mrs. Gill The Fairy mimbling mambling in the garden.
DOWN-ADOWN-DERRY
Down-adown-derry, Sweet Annie Maroon, Gathering daisies In the meadows of Doone, Hears a shrill piping, Elflike and free, Where the waters go brawling In rills to the sea; Singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry, Sweet Annie Maroon, Through the green grasses Peeps softly; and soon Spies under green willows A fairy whose song Like the smallest of bubbles Floats bobbing along; Singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry, Her cheeks were like wine, Her eyes in her wee face Like water-sparks shine, Her niminy fingers Her sleek tresses preen, The which in the combing She peeps out between; Singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry, Shrill, shrill was her tune:-- "Come to my water-house, Annie Maroon: Come in your dimity, Ribbon on head, To wear siller seaweed And coral instead"; Singing down-adown-derry.
"Down-adown-derry, Lean fish of the sea, Bring lanthorns for feasting The gay Faërie; 'Tis sand for the dancing, A music all sweet In the water-green gloaming For thistledown feet"; Singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry, Sweet Annie Maroon Looked large on the fairy Curled wan as the moon And all the grey ripples To the Mill racing by, With harps and with timbrels Did ringing reply; Singing down-adown-derry.
"Down-adown-derry," Sang the Fairy of Doone, Piercing the heart Of Sweet Annie Maroon; And lo! when like roses The clouds of the sun Faded at dusk, gone Was Annie Maroon; Singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry, The daisies are few; Frost twinkles powdery In haunts of the dew; And only the robin Perched on a thorn, Can comfort the heart Of a father forlorn; Singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry, There's snow in the air; Ice where the lily Bloomed waxen and fair; He may call o'er the water, Cry--cry through the Mill, But Annie Maroon, alas! Answer ne'er will; Singing down-adown-derry.
WITCHES AND WITCHCRAFT
THE HARE
In the black furrow of a field I saw an old witch-hare this night; And she cocked a lissome ear, And she eyed the moon so bright, And she nibbled of the green; And I whispered "Wh-s-st! witch-hare," Away like a ghostie o'er the field She fled, and left the moonlight there.
I SAW THREE WITCHES
I saw three witches That bowed down like barley, And straddled their brooms 'neath a louring sky, And, mounting a storm-cloud, Aloft on its margin, Stood black in the silver as up they did fly.
I saw three witches That mocked the poor sparrows They carried in cages of wicker along, Till a hawk from his eyrie Swooped down like an arrow, Smote on the cages, and ended their song.
I saw three witches That sailed in a shallop, All turning their heads with a snickering smile, Till a bank of green osiers Concealed their grim faces, Though I heard them lamenting for many a mile.
I saw three witches Asleep in a valley, Their heads in a row, like stones in a flood, Till the moon, creeping upward, Looked white through the valley, And turned them to bushes in bright scarlet bud.
THE ISLE OF LONE
Three dwarfs there were which lived in an isle, And the name of that Isle was Lone, And the names of the dwarfs were Alliolyle, Lallerie, Muziomone.
Alliolyle was green of een, Lallerie light of locks, Muziomone was mild of mien, As ewes in April flocks.
Their house was small and sweet of the sea, And pale as the Malmsey wine; Their bowls were three, and their beds were three, And their nightcaps white were nine.
Their beds they were made of the holly-wood, Their combs of the tortoise's shell, Three basins of silver in corners there stood, And three little ewers as well.
Green rushes, green rushes lay thick on the floor, For light beamed a gobbet of wax; There were three wooden stools for whatever they wore On their humpity-dumpity backs.
So each would lie on a drowsy pillow And watch the moon in the sky-- And hear the parrot scream to the billow, The billow roar reply:
Parrots of sapphire and sulphur and amber, Scarlet, and flame, and green, While five-foot apes did scramble and clamber, In the feathery-tufted treen.
All night long with bubbles a-glisten The ocean cried under the moon, Till ape and parrot, too sleepy to listen, To sleep and slumber were gone.
Then from three small beds the dark hours' while In a house in the Island of Lone Rose the snoring of Lallerie, Alliolyle, The snoring of Muziomone.
But soon as ever came peep of sun On coral and feathery tree, Three nightcapped dwarfs to the surf would run And soon were a-bob in the sea.
At six they went fishing, at nine they snared Young foxes in the dells, At noon on sweet berries and honey they fared, And blew in their twisted shells.
Dark was the sea they gambolled in, And thick with silver fish, Dark as green glass blown clear and thin To be a monarch's dish.
They sate to sup in a jasmine bower, Lit pale with flies of fire, Their bowls the hue of the iris-flower, And lemon their attire.
Sweet wine in little cups they sipped, And golden honeycomb Into their bowls of cream they dipped, Whipt light and white as foam.
Now Alliolyle, where the sand-flower blows, Taught three old apes to sing-- Taught three old apes to dance on their toes And caper around in a ring.
They yelled them hoarse and they croaked them sweet, They twirled them about and around, To the noise of their voices they danced with their feet, They stamped with their feet on the ground.
But down to the shore skipped Lallerie, His parrot on his thumb, And the twain they scritched in mockery, While the dancers go and come.
And, alas! in the evening, rosy and still, Light-haired Lallerie Bitterly quarrelled with Alliolyle By the yellow-sanded sea.
The rising moon swam sweet and large Before their furious eyes, And they rolled and rolled to the coral marge Where the surf for ever cries.
Too late, too late, comes Muziomone: Clear in the clear green sea Alliolyle lies not alone, But clasped with Lallerie.
He blows on his shell plaintive notes; Ape, parraquito, bee Flock where a shoe on the salt wave floats,-- The shoe of Lallerie.
He fetches nightcaps, one and nine, Grey apes he dowers three, His house as fair as the Malmsey wine Seems sad as cypress-tree.
Three bowls he brims with sweet honeycomb To feast the bumble bees, Saying, "O bees, be this your home, For grief is on the seas!"
He sate him lone in a coral grot, At the flowing in of the tide; When ebbed the billow, there was not, Save coral, aught beside.
So hairy apes in three white beds, And nightcaps, one and nine, On moonlit pillows lay three heads Bemused with dwarfish wine.
A tomb of coral, the dirge of bee, The grey apes' guttural groan For Alliolyle, for Lallerie, For thee, O Muziomone!
SUNK LYONESSE
In sea-cold Lyonesse, When the Sabbath eve shafts down On the roofs, walls, belfries Of the foundered town, The Nereids pluck their lyres Where the green translucency beats, And with motionless eyes at gaze Make minstrelsy in the streets.
The ocean water stirs In salt-worn casemate and porch Plies the blunt-snouted fish With fire in his skull for torch. And the ringing wires resound; And the unearthly lovely weep, In lament of the music they make In the sullen courts of sleep.
Whose marble flowers bloom for aye, And--lapped by the moon-guiled tide-- Mock their carver with heart of stone, Caged in his stone-ribbed side.
SLEEPING BEAUTY
The scent of bramble fills the air, Amid her folded sheets she lies, The gold of evening in her hair, The blue of morn shut in her eyes.
How many a changing moon hath lit The unchanging roses of her face! Her mirror ever broods on it In silver stillness of the days.
Oft flits the moth on filmy wings Into his solitary lair; Shrill evensong the cricket sings From some still shadow in her hair.
In heat, in snow, in wind, in flood, She sleeps in lovely loneliness, Half-folded like an April bud On winter-haunted trees.
BEWITCHED
I have heard a lady this night, Lissom and jimp and slim, Calling me--calling me over the heather, 'Neath the beech boughs dusk and dim.
I have followed a lady this night, Followed her far and lone, Fox and adder and weasel know The ways that we have gone.
I sit at my supper 'mid honest faces, And crumble my crust and say Nought in the long-drawn drawl of the voices Talking the hours away.
I'll go to my chamber under the gable, And the moon will lift her light In at my lattice from over the moorland Hollow and still and bright.
And I know she will shine on a lady of witchcraft, Gladness and grief to see, Who has taken my heart with her nimble fingers, Calls in my dreams to me:
Who has led me a dance by dell and dingle My human soul to win, Made me a changeling to my own, own mother, A stranger to my kin.
THE ENCHANTED HILL
From height of noon, remote and still, The sun shines on the empty hill. No mist, no wind, above, below; No living thing strays to and fro. No bird replies to bird on high, Cleaving the skies with echoing cry. Like dreaming water, green and wan, Glassing the snow of mantling swan, Like a clear jewel encharactered With secret symbol of line and word, Asheen, unruffled, slumbrous, still, The sunlight streams on the empty hill.
But soon as Night's dark shadows ride Across its shrouded Eastern side, When at her kindling, clear and full, Star beyond star stands visible; Then course pale phantoms, fleet-foot deer Lap of its waters icy-clear; Mounts the large moon, and pours her beams On bright-fish-flashing, singing streams; Voices re-echo; coursing by, Horsemen, like clouds, wheel silently. Glide then from out their pitch-black lair Beneath the dark's ensilvered arch, Witches becowled into the air; And iron pine and emerald larch, Tents of delight for ravished bird, Are by loud music thrilled and stirred. Winging the light, with silver feet, Beneath their bowers of fragrance met, In dells of rose and meadowsweet, In mazed dance the fairies flit; While drives his share the Ploughman high Athwart the daisy-powdered sky: Till far away, in thickening dew, Piercing the Eastern shadows through Rilling in crystal clear and still, Light 'gins to tremble on the hill. And like a mist on faint winds borne, Silent, forlorn, wells up the morn. Then the broad sun with burning beams Steeps slope and peak and gilded streams. Then no foot stirs; the brake shakes not; Soundless and wet in its green grot As if asleep, the leaf hangs limp; The white dews drip untrembling down, From bough to bough, orblike, unblown; And in strange quiet, shimmering and still, Morning enshrines the empty hill.
THE RIDE-BY-NIGHTS
Up on their brooms the Witches stream, Crooked and black in the crescent's gleam; One foot high, and one foot low, Bearded, cloaked, and cowled, they go. 'Neath Charlie's Wane they twitter and tweet, And away they swarm 'neath the Dragon's feet. With a whoop and a flutter they swing and sway, And surge pell-mell down the Milky Way. Betwixt the legs of the glittering Chair They hover and squeak in the empty air. Then round they swoop past the glimmering Lion To where Sirius barks behind huge Orion; Up, then, and over to wheel amain, Under the silver, and home again.
OFF THE GROUND