Part 2 (1/2)

”We were wed but yester-noon, must we separate so soon?

Must you travel una.s.soiled and, aye, unshriven, With the blood stain on your hand, and the red streak on your brand, And your guilt all unconfessed and unforgiven?”

”Tho' it were but yester-even we were wedded, still unshriven, Across the moor this morning I must ride; I must gallop fast and straight, for my errand will not wait; Fear naught, I shall return at eventide.”

”If I fear, it is for thee, thy weal is dear to me, Yon moor with retribution seemeth rife; As we've sown so must we reap, and I've started in my sleep At the voice of the avenger, 'Life for life'.”

”My arm is strong, I ween, and my trusty blade is keen, And the courser that I ride is swift and sure, And I cannot break my oath, though to leave thee I am loth, There is one that I must meet upon the moor.”

Oh! the sun shone on the lea, and the bird sang merrilie, Down the avenue and through the iron gate, Spurr'd and belted, so he rode, steel to draw and steel to goad, And across the moor he galloped fast and straight.

Oh! the sun shone on the lea, and the bird sang full of glee, Ere the mists of evening gather'd chill and grey; But the wild bird's merry note on the deaf ear never smote, And the suns.h.i.+ne never warmed the lifeless clay.

Ere the sun began to droop, or the mist began to stoop, The youthful bride lay swooning in the hall; Empty saddle on his back, broken bridle hanging slack, The steed returned full gallop to the stall.

Oh! the sun sank in the sea, and the wind wailed drearilie; Let the bells in yonder monastery toll, For the night rack nestles dark round the body stiff and stark, And unshriven to its Maker flies the soul.

Ye Wearie Wayfarer, hys Ballad In Eight Fyttes.

Fytte I By Wood and Wold [A Preamble]

”Beneath the greenwood bough.”--W. Scott.

Lightly the breath of the spring wind blows, Though laden with faint perfume, 'Tis the fragrance rare that the bushman knows, The scent of the wattle bloom.

Two-thirds of our journey at least are done, Old horse! let us take a spell In the shade from the glare of the noonday sun, Thus far we have travell'd well; Your bridle I'll slip, your saddle ungirth, And lay them beside this log, For you'll roll in that track of reddish earth, And shake like a water-dog.

Upon yonder rise there's a clump of trees-- Their shadows look cool and broad-- You can crop the gra.s.s as fast as you please, While I stretch my limbs on the sward; 'Tis pleasant, I ween, with a leafy screen O'er the weary head, to lie On the mossy carpet of emerald green, 'Neath the vault of the azure sky; Thus all alone by the wood and wold, I yield myself once again To the memories old that, like tales fresh told, Come flitting across the brain.

Fytte II By Flood and Field [A Legend of the Cottiswold]

”They have saddled a hundred milk-white steeds, They have bridled a hundred black.”--Old Ballad.

”He turned in his saddle, now follow who dare.

I ride for my country, quoth ----.”

--Lawrence.

I remember the lowering wintry morn, And the mist on the Cotswold hills, Where I once heard the blast of the huntsman's horn, Not far from the seven rills.

Jack Esdale was there, and Hugh St. Clair, Bob Chapman and Andrew Kerr, And big George Griffiths on Devil-May-Care, And--black Tom Oliver.

And one who rode on a dark-brown steed, Clean jointed, sinewy, spare, With the lean game head of the Blacklock breed, And the resolute eye that loves the lead, And the quarters ma.s.sive and square-- A tower of strength, with a promise of speed (There was Celtic blood in the pair).

I remember how merry a start we got, When the red fox broke from the gorse, In a country so deep, with a scent so hot, That the hound could outpace the horse; I remember how few in the front rank shew'd, How endless appeared the tail, On the brown hill-side, where we cross'd the road, And headed towards the vale.

The dark-brown steed on the left was there, On the right was a dappled grey, And between the pair, on a chestnut mare, The duffer who writes this lay.