Chapter 3

Sae fettle[5] my owd blue coble, I kessen’d her “Mornin’ Star,” An’ I’ll away through t’ offin’ Wheer t’ skooals o’ mack’rel are. Thoo can look for my boat i’ t’ harbour, When thoo’s said thy mornin’ psalm; Mebbe I’ll fill my fish-creel full— Mebbe I’ll nean coom yam.

[1] Kindling.

[2] Grow moist.

[3] Elfish.

[4] Silent.

[5] Get ready.

One Year Older

One yeer owder, one yeer dearer: That’s what I sal awlus say. Draw thy chair a little nearer, Put yon stockin’s reight away. Thou hast done enough i’ thy time, Tewed i’ t’ house an’ wrowt at loom; Just for once thou mun sit idle, Feet on t’ hear’stone, fingers toom.[1]

One yeer owder, one yeer dearer: So I promised when we wed. Then thy een were glest’rin’ clearer Nor the stars aboon us spread. If they’re dimmer now, they’re tend’rer, An’ yon wrinkles on thy face Tell a lesson true as t’ Bible, Speik o’ charity an’ grace.

One yeer owder, one yeer dearer: We’ve supped sorrow, tasted joy, But our love has grown sincerer, Gethered strength nowt can destroy. Love is like an oak i’ t’ forest, Ivery yeer it adds a ring; Love is like yon ivin tendrils, Ivery day they closer cling.

One yeer owder, one yeer dearer: Time’s the shuttle, life’s the yarn. Have thy crosses seemed severer ’Cause thou niver had a barn? Mebbe I sud not have loved thee Hauf so weel, if I mud share All our secret thowts wi’ childer, Twinin’ round my owd arm-chair.

One yeer owder, one yeer dearer: ’Tis our gowden weddin’ day. There sal coom no gaumless fleerer To break in upon our play. Look, I’ve stecked[2] wer door and window Let me lap thee i’ my arms; Hushed to-neet be ivery murmur, While my kiss thy pale face warms.

[1] Empty.

[2] Latched.

The Hungry Forties

Thou wants my vote, young man wi’ t’ carpet-bags, Weel, sit thee down, an’ hark what I’ve to say. It’s noan so varry oft wer kitchen flags Are mucked by real live lords down Yelland[1] way.

I’ve read thy speyks i’ t’ paper of a neet, Thou lets a vast o’ words flow off thy tongue; Thou’s gotten facts an’ figures, plain as t’ leet, An’ argiments to slocken[2] owd an’ young.

But what are facts an’ figures ’side o’ truths We’ve bowt wi’ childer’ tears an’ brokken lives? An’ what are argiments o’ cockered youths To set agean yon groans o’ caitiff[3] wives?

’Twere “hungry forties” when I were a lad, An’ fowks were clemmed, an’ weak i’ t’ airm an’ brain; We lived on demick’d[4] taties, bread gone sad, An’ wakkened up o’ neets croodled[5] wi’ pain.

When t’ quartern loaf were raised to one and four, We’d watter-brewis, swedes stown out o’ t’ field; Farmers were t’ landlords’ jackals, an’ us poor Tewed in Egyptian bondage unrepealed.

I mind them times when lads marched down our street Wi’ penny loaves on pikes all steeped i’ blooid; “It’s breead or blooid,” they cried. “We’ve nowt to eat; To Hell wi’ all that taxes t’ people’s fooid.”

There was a papist duke[6] that com aleng Wi’ curry powders, an’ he telled our boss That when fowk’s bellies felt pination’s teng,[7] For breead, yon stinkin’ powders they mun soss.[8]

I went to wark when I were eight yeer owd; I tended galloways an’ sammed up coils. ’Twere warm i’ t’ pit, aboon ’t were despert cowd, An’ clothes were nobbut spetches,[9] darns an’ hoils.

Thro’ six to eight I worked, then two mile walk Across yon sumpy[10] fields to t’ kitchen door. I’ve often fainted, face as white as chalk, Then fall’n lang-length upon wer cobble-floor.

My mother addled seven and six a week, Slavin’ all t’ day at Akeroyd’s weyvin’-shed: Fayther at t’ grunstone wrowt, while he fell sick; Steel filin’s gate intul his lungs, he said.

I come thee then no thank for all thy speyks, Thou might as weel have spared thisen thy pains; I see no call to laik at ducks an’ drakes Wi’ t’ bitter truth that’s burnt intul our brains.

“Corn laws be damned,” said dad i’ forty-eight; “Corn laws be damned,” say I i’ nineteen-five. Tariff reform, choose, how, will have to wait Down Yelland way, so lang as I’m alive.

If thou an’ thine sud tax us workers’ fooid, An’ thrust us back in our owd misery, May t’ tears o’ our deead childer thin thy blooid, An’ t’ curse o’ t’ “hungry forties” leet on thee.

[1] Elland.

[2] Satiate.

[3] Infirm.

[4] Diseased.

[5] Bent double.

[6] Duke of Norfolk.

[7] Sting.

[8] Sip.

[9] Patches.

[10] Swampy.

The Flowers of Knaresborough Forest

But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away. _Jane Elliot_ (1727-1805).

O! day-time is weary, an’ dark o’ dusk dreary For t’ lasses i’ t’ mistal, or rakin’ ower t’ hay; When t’ kye coom for strippin’, or t’ yowes for their clippin’, We think on our sowdiers now gone reet away.

The courtin’-gate’s idle, nae lad flings his bridle Ower t’ yak-stoup,[1] an’ sleely cooms seekin’ his may; The trod by the river is green as a sliver,[2] For the Flowers o’ the Forest have all stown away.

At Marti’mas hirin’s, nae ribbins, nae tirin’s, When t’ godspenny’s[3] addled, an’ t’ time’s coom for play; Nae Cheap-Jacks, nae dancin’, wi’ t’ teamster’ clogs prancin , The Flowers o’ the Forest are all flown a way.

When at neet church is lowsin’, an’ t’ owd ullet is rousin’ Hissel i’ our laithe,[4] wheer he’s slummered all t’ day, Wae’s t’ heart! but we misses our lads’ saftest kisses, Now the Flowers o’ the Forest are gone reet away.

Ploo-lads frae Pannal have crossed ower the Channel, Shipperds frae Fewston have taen the King’s pay, Thackrays frae Dacre have sold ivery acre; Thou’ll finnd ne’er a delver[5] frae Haverah to Bray.

When t’ north wind is howlin’, an’ t’ west wind is yowlin’, It’s for t’ farm lads at sea that us lasses mun pray; Tassey-Will o’ t’ new biggin, keepin’ watch i’ his riggin , Lile Jock i’ his fo’c’sle, torpedoed i’ t’ bay.

Mony a lass now is weepin’ for her marrow that’s sleepin’, Wi’ nae bield for his corp but the cowd Flanthers clay; He’ll ne’er lift his limmers,[6] he’ll ne’er wean his gimmers[7]: Ay, there’s Flowers o’ the Forest are withered away.

[1] Oak-post.

[2] Branch of a leafing tree.

[3] Earnest money.

[4] Barn.

[5] Quarryman.

[6] Wagon-shafts.

[7] Ewe lambs.

The Miller by the Shore an East Coast Chanty

The miller by the shore am I, A man o’ despert sense; I’ve fotty different soorts o’ ways O’ addlin’ honest pence. Good wheat and wuts and barley-corns My mill grinds all t’ day lang ; Frae faave ’o t’ morn while seven o’ t’ neet My days are varra thrang.

Chorus

I mill a bit, I till a bit, I dee all maks ’o jobs, Frae followin’ ploos and hollowin’ coos To mendin’ chairs and squabs.[1] Oh! folks they laugh and girn at me, I niver tak it ill; If I’s the Jack ’o ivery trade, They all bring grist to t’ mill.

I tend my hunderd yakker farm, An’ milk my Kyloe kye. I’ve Lincoln yowes an’ Leicester tups An’ twenty head ’o wye.[2] I’ve stirks to tak to Scarbro’ mart, I’ve meers for farmers’ gigs; And oh! I wish that you could see My laatle sookin’ pigs.

I mill a bit. ...

When summer days graws lang an’ breet, Oot cooms my “Noah’s Arks,” Wheer city folk undriss theirsels An’ don my bathin’ sarks.[3] An’ when they git on land agean, I rub’ em smooth as silk; Then bring’ em oot, to fill their weeams, My parkin ceakes an’ milk.

I mill a bit. ...

I pike[4] stray timmer on the shore, An’ cuvins[5] on the scar; I know wheer crabs ’ll hugger up,[6] I know wheer t’ lobsters are. I’ve cobles fishin’ oot i’ t’ bay, For whitings, dabs and cods, I’ve herrin’ trawls and salmon nets, I’ve hooks and lines and rods.

I mill a bit. ...

On darksome neets, back-end ’o t’ yeer, I like another sport; I row my boat wheer t’ lugger lies, Coom frae some foreign port; A guinea in a coastguard’s poke Will mak him steck his een ; So he says nowt when I coom yam Wi’ scent and saccharine.

I mill a bit. ...

[1] Settles.

[2] Heifers.

[3] Shirts.

[4] Pick up.

[5] Periwinkles.

[6] Crowd together.

The Bride’s Homecoming

A weddin’, a woo, A clog an’ a shoe, A pot full o’ porridge; away we go! _A Yorkshire Wedding-Rhyme_.

Thoo mun hod on tight, my darlin’, We’ve mony a beck to cross; Twix’ thy father’s hoose an’ mine, love, There’s a vast o’ slacks an’ moss. But t’ awd mare, shoo weant whemmle[1] Though there’s twee on her back astride; Shoo’s as prood as me, is Snowball, Noo I’s fetchin’ heame my bride. A weddin’, a woo, A clog an’ a shoe, A pot full o’ porridge; away we go!

Gow! but I feel sae leetsome, Sin I’ve lived to see this day; My heart is like a blackbod’s Efter a shoor i’ May. I’ t’ sky aboon nea lairock Has sae mich reet to sing As I have, noo I’ve wedded T’ lile lass o’ Fulsa Ing. A weddin’, a woo, A clog an’ a shoe, A pot full o’ porridge; away we go!

Does ta hear yon watter bubblin’, Deep doon i’ t’ moorland streams? It soonds like childer’ voices When they’re laughin’ i’ their dreams. An’ look at yon lang-tailed pyots,[2] There s three on ’em, I’ll uphod! Folks say that three’s for a weddin’, Ay, a pyot’s a canny bod. A weddin’, a woo, A clog an’ a shoe, A pot full o’ porridge; away we go!

I love to feel thee clingin’ Wi’ thy hands aroond my breast; Thy bosom’s leetly heavin’, Like a ship on t’ saut waves’ crest. An’ thy breath is sweet as t’ breezes, That cooms ower t’ soothern hills, When t’ violet blaws i’ t’ springtime Wi’ t’ yollow daffydills. A weddin’, a woo, A clog an’ a shoe, A pot full o’ porridge; away we go!

Is ta gittin’ tired, my honey, We’ll be heame i’ hafe an hour; Thoo’ll see our hoose an’ staggarth, Wi’ t’ birk-trees bendin’ ower. There’s a lillilow[3] i’ our cham’er To welcome my viewly bride ; An’ sean we’ll be theer oorsels, lass, Liggin’ cosy side by side. A weddin’, a woo, A clog an’ a shoe, A pot full o’ porridge; away we go!

[1] Stumble.

[2] Magpies.

[3] Light.

The Artist

Lang-haired gauvies[1] coom my way, drawin’ t’ owd abbey an’ brig, All their crack is o’ Art-staities an’ picturs an’ paints; Want to put me on their canvas, donned i’ my farmer’s rig, Tell me I’m pairt o’ t’ scenery, stained-glass windeys an’ saints.

I reckon I’m artist an’ all, though I niver gave it a thowt; Breeder o’ stock is my trade, Mike Pullan o’ t’ Abbey Close. What sud a farmer want wi’ picturs that brass has bowt? All his art is i’ t’ mistal, wheer t’ heifers are ranged i’ rows.

Look at yon pedigree bull, wi’ an eye as breet as a star, An’ a coat that shines like velvet, when it catches t’ glent o’ t’ sun; Hark to him bealin’ for t’ cows, wi’ a voice like t’ thunner on t’ scar, Watch them sinews i’ t’ neck, ripplin’ wi’ mischief an’ fun.

Three generations o’ men have lived their lives for yon bull, Tewed at his keep all t’ day, dreamed o’ his sleekness all t’ neet; Moulded the bugth o’ his buttocks, fashioned the breadth o’ his skull— Ivery one on ’em artists, sculptors o’ butcher’s meat.

What are your Rubens and Vandykes anent the craft that is Breed? Anent the art that is Life, what’s figures o’ bronze or stone? Us farmers ’ll mould you models, better nor statties that’s deead— Strength that is wick i’ the flesh, Beauty that’s bred i’ the bone.

Bailiff’s doughter at t’ Hollins, shoo’s Breed, an’ shoo’s Life, an shoo’s Art, Bred frae a Westmorland statesman out o’ a Craven lass; Carries hersen like a queen when shoo drives to markit i’ t’ cart: Noan o’ yon scraumy-legged[2] painters sal iver git howd o’ her brass.

Picturs is reight enough for fowks cluttered up i’ Leeds, Fowks that have ne’er hannled beasts, can’t tell a tup frae a yowe ; But the art for coontry lads is the art that breathes an’ feeds, An’ t’ finest gallery i’ t’ worrld is a Yorkshire cattle-show.

[1] Simpletons.

[2] Spindle-legged.

Marra to Bonney

What would you do wi’ a doughter— Pray wi’ her, bensil[1] her, flout her?— Say, what would you do wi’ a daughter That’s marra to Bonney[2] hissen?

I prayed wi’ her first, of a Sunday, When chapil was lowsin’ for t’ neet; An’ I laid all her cockaloft marlocks[3] ’Fore th’ Almighty’s mercy-seat. When I looked for her tears o’ repentance, I jaloused[4] that I saw her laugh; An’ she said that t’ Powers o’ Justice Would scatter my words like chaff.

Then I bensilled her hard in her cham’er, As I bensils owd Neddy i’ t’ cart. If prayers willent teach thee, my dolly, Happen whip-stock will mak thy tears start. But she stood there as chuff as a mawmet,[5] Not one chunt’rin[6] word did she say: But she hoped that t’ blooid o’ t’ martyrs Would waish all my sins away.

Then I thought, mebbe floutin’ will mend her; So I watched while she cam out o’ t’ mill, And afore all yon Wyke lads an’ lasses I fleered at her reight up our hill. She winced when she heeard all their girnin’, Then she whispered, a sob i’ her throat: “I reckon I’ll noan think o’ weddin’ While women are given their vote.”

What would you do wi’ a doughter— Pray wi’ her, bensil her, flout her?— Say, what would you do wi’ a daughter That’s marra to Bonney hissen?

[1] Beat.

[2] A match for Bonaparte.

[3] Conceited tricks.

[4] Suspected.

[5] As proud as an idol.

[6] Grumbling.

Mary Mecca

Mary Mecca,[1] Mary Mecca, I’m fain to see thee here, A Devon lass to fill my glass O’ home-brewed Yorkshire beer. I awlus said that foreigners Sud niver mel on me; But sike a viewly face as thine I’d travel far to see.

Mary Mecca, Mary Mecca, I’m sad to see thee here, Wheer t’ wind blaws hask[2] frae Norway I’ t’ spring-time o’ the year. I’d liever finnd thee sittin’, Wi’ a bowl o’ cruds an’ cream, Wheer t’ foxglove bells ring through the dells, Anent a Dartmoor stream.

Mary Mecca, Mary Mecca, The way thou snods thy hair, It maks my heart go dancin’ Like winnlestraws[3] i’ t’ air. One neet I heard thee singin’, As I cam home frae toon; ’Twas sweet as curlews makkin’ love Agean a risin’ moon.

Mary Mecca, Mary Mecca, I dream o’ thy gray een; I think on all I’ve wasted, An’ what I might hae been. I’m nowt but muck off t’ midden, So all I axe is this: Just blaw the froth from off my yal[4]; ’Twill seem most like a kiss.

[1] Metcalfe.

[2] Keenly.

[3] Whisps of grass or straw.

[4] Ale.

The Local Preacher

Ay, I’m a ranter, so at least fowks say; Happen they’d tell t’ same tale o’ t’ postle Paul. I’ve ranted fifty yeer, coom first o’ May, An’ niver changed my gospil through ’em all.

There’s nowt like t’ Blooid o’ t’ Lamb an’ t’ Fire o’ Hell To bring a hardened taistril[1] to his knees; If fowks want more nor that, then thou can tell ’Em straight, I’ve got no cure for their disease.

I willent thole this New Theology That blends up Hell wi’ Heaven, sinners wi’ saints For black was black when I turned Methody, An’ white was white, i’ souls as weel as paints.

That’s awlus t’ warp an’ t’ weft o’ my discourse, An’ awlus will be, lang as I can teach; If fowks won’t harken tul it, then, of course, They go to church and hear t’ owd parson preach.

His sarmon’s like his baccy, sweet an’ mild; Fowk’s ommost hauf asleep at t’ second word. By t’ Mass! they’re wick as lops,[2] ay, man an’ child, When I stan’ up an’ wrastle wi’ the Lord.

Nay, I’m not blamin’ parson, I’ll awant[3]; Preachin’s his trade, same way as millin’s mine. I’ trade you’ve got to gie fowks what they want, An’ that is mostly sawcum[4] meshed reet fine.

Tak squire theer; he don’t want no talk o’ Hell, He likes to hark to t’ parable o’ t’ teares ; He reckons church is wheat that’s gooid to sell, But chapil’s nobbut kexes,[5] thorns, an’ brears.

Squire’s lasses, they can’t do wi’ t’ Blooid o’ t’ Lamb They’re all for t’ blooid o’ t’ foxes, like our Bob. The Lord Hissen will have to save or damn Church fowks wid out me mellin’ on[6] His job.

But gie me chapil lasses gone astray, Or lads that cooms home druffen of a neet, An’ I’ll raise Cain afore I go away, If I don’t gie ’em t’ glent o’ t’ Gospil leet.

I’ll mak ’em sit on t’ penitential stooils, An’ roar as loud as t’ buzzer down at t’ mill; I’ll mak ’em own that they’ve bin despert fooils, Wi’ all their pride o’ life a bitter pill.

I’ve mony texts, but all to one point keep, Same as all t’ becks flow down to one saut sea: Damnation an’ salvation, goats an’ sheep— That’s t’ Bible gospil that thou’ll get thro’ me.

[1] Reprobate.

[2] Lively as fleas.

[3] Warrrant.

[4] Sawdust.

[5] Dried stems of weeds.

[6] Meddling with.

The Courting Gate

There’s dew upon the meadows, An’ bats are wheelin’ high; The sun has set an hour sin’, An’ evenin’ leet’s i’ t’ sky. Swalows i’ t’ thack are sleepin , Neet-hawks are swift on t’ wing, An’ grey moths gethers honey Amang the purple ling . O coom an’ meet me, Mally, O coom an’ greet me, Mally, Meet me, greet me, at the courtin’ gate.

The fire-leet casts thy shadow Owerthwart the kitchen wall; It’s dancin’ up an’ doon, lass, My heart does dance an’ all. Three times I’ve gien oor love-call To bring my bird to t’ nest. When wilt a coom, my throstle, An’ shelter on my breast? O coom an’ meet me, Mally, O coom an’ greet me, Mally, Meet me, greet me, at the courtin’ gate.

I’ve wrowt all t’ day at t’ harvist, But ivery hour seemed sweet, Acause I thowt I’d haud thee Clasped i’ my airms to-neet. Black Bess she raked aside me An’ leuked at me an’ smiled; I telled her I loved Mally, It made her despert wild. O coom an’ meet me, Mally, O coom an’ greet me, Mally, Meet me, greet me, at the courtin’ gate.

Thy shadow’s gone frae t’ kitchen, T’ hoose-door is oppened wide. It’s she, my viewly Mally, The lass I’ll mak my bride. White lilies in her garden, Fling oot your scent i’ t’ air, An’ mingle breath wi’ t’ roses I’ve gethered for her hair. O let me haud thee, Mally, O let me faud thee, Mally, Haud thee, faud thee, at the courtin’ gate.

Fieldfares

Fieldfares, bonny fieldfares, feedin’ ’mang the bent, Wheer the sun is shinin’ through yon cloud’s wide rent, Welcoom back to t’ moorlands, Frae Norway’s fells an’ shorelands, Welcoom back to Whardill,[1] now October’s ommost spent.

Noisy, chackin’ fieldfares, weel I ken your cry, When i’ flocks you’re sweepin’ ower the hills sae high: Oft on trees you gethers, Preenin’ out your feathers, An’ I’m fain to see your coats as blue as t’ summer sky.

Curlews, larks an’ tewits,[2] all have gone frae t’ moors, Frost has nipped i’ t’ garden all my bonny floors; Roses, lilies, pansies, Stocks an’ yallow tansies Fade away, an’ soon the leaves ’ll clutter[3] doon i’ shoors.

Here i’ bed I’m liggin’, liggin’ day by day Hay-cart whemmled ower,[4] and underneath I lay; I was nobbut seven, Soon I’ll be eleven; Fower times have I seen you fieldfares coom an’ flee away.

You’ll be gone when t’ swallow bigs his nest o’ loam, April winds ’ll blaw you far ower t’ saut sea foam; You’ll not wait while May-time, Summer dews an’ hay-time; Lang afore our gerse is mawn your mates ’ll call you home.

Fieldfares, liltin’[5] fieldfares, you’ll noan sing to me. Why sud you bide silent while you’ve crossed the sea? Are you brokken-hearted, Sin frae home you’ve parted, Leavin’ far frae Yorkshire moors your nests i’ t’ tall fir tree?

Storm-cock sings at new-yeer, swingin’ on yon esh, Sings his loudest song when t’ winds do beat an’ lesh; Robins, throstles follow, An’ when cooms the swalloww, All the birds ’ll chirm to see our woodlands green an’ nesh.

Fieldfares, bonny fieldfares, I’ll be gone ’fore you; I’m sae weak an’ dowly, hands are thin an’ blue. Pain is growin’ stranger, As the neets get langer. Will you miss my face at whiles, when t’ owd yeer’s changed to t’ new?

[1] Wharfdale.

[2] Peewits.

[3] Huddle.

[4] Upset.

[5] Light-hearted.

A Song of the Yorkshire Dales

A song I sing o’ t’ Yorkshire dales, That Winnd frae t’ moors to t’ sea; Frae t’ breast o’ t’ fells, wheer t’ cloud-rack sails, Their becks flow merrily. Their banks are breet wi’ moss an’ broom, An’ sweet is t’ scent o’ t’ thyme; You can hark to t’ bees’ saft, dreamy soom[1] I’ t’ foxglove bells an’ t’ lime.

Chorus

O! Swawdill’s good for horses, an’ Wensladill for cheese, An’ Airedill fowk are busy as a bee; But wheersoe’er I wander, My owd heart aye grows fonder O Whardill, wheer I’ll lig me down an’ dee.

Reet bonny are our dales i’ March, When t’ curlews tak to t’ moors, There’s ruddy buds on ivery larch, Primroses don their floors. But bonnier yet when t’ August sun Leets up yon plats o’ ling; An’ gert white fishes lowp an’ scun,[2] Wheer t’ weirs ower t’ watter hing.

O! Swawdillls good...

By ivery beck an abbey sleeps, An’ t’ ullet is t’ owd prior. A jackdaw thruf each windey peeps, An’ bigs his nest i’ t’ choir. In ivery dale a castle stands— Sing, Clifford, Percy, Scrope!— They threaped amang theirsels for t’ lands, But fowt for t’ King or t’ Pope.

O! Swawdill’s good...

O! Eastward ho! is t’ song o’ t’ gales, As they sweep ower fell an’ lea; And Eastward ho! is t’ song o’ t’ dales, That winnd frae t’ moors to t’ sea. Coom winter frost, coom summer druft, Their watters munnot bide; An’ t’ rain that’s fall’n when bould winds soughed Sal iver seawards glide.

O! Swawdill’ s good...

[1] Hum.

[2] Leap and dart away.

The Flower of Wensleydale

She leaned o’er her latticed casement, The Flower of Wensleydale; ’Twas St Agnes Eve at midnight, Through the mist the stars burnt pale.

In her hand she held twelve sage-leaves, Plucked in her garden at noon; And over them she had whispered thrice The spell of a mystic rune.

For many had come a-wooing The maid with the sloe-blue eyes; Fain would she learn of St Agnes To whom should fall the prize.

They said she must drop a sage-leaf At each stroke of the midnight hour; Then should the knight of her father’s choice Obey the summons of her voice, And appear ’neath her oriel’d bowwer.

To the holy virgin-martyr She lifted her hands in prayer; Then she watched the rooks that perched asleep In the chestnut branches bare.

At last on the frosty silence There rang out the midnight chime; And the hills gave back in echoes The knell of the dying time.

She held her breath as she counted The beats of the chapel bell; At every stroke of the hammer A sage-leaf fluttered and fell, Slowly fluttered and fell.

Her heart stood still a moment, As the last leaf touched the ground; And her hand went swift to her maiden breast, For she heard a far-off sound;

’Twas the sound of a horseman spurring His steed through the woodland glade; And ever the sound drew nearer, And the footfalls echoed clearer, Till before her bower they stayed.

She strained her eyes to discover, By the light of a ghostly moon, Who was the knight had heard and obeyed The hest of the mystic rune.

But naught could she see from her casement, Save a man on a coal-black steed; For his mantle was muffled about him, His blazon she could not read.

She crossed herself and she whispered— Her voice was faint but clear— “Oh! Who art thou that darest ride, Through the aspen glade, by the river’s side, My chamber window near?