First VoiceThe Mariner hath been cast into a trance; for the angelic power causeth the vessel to drive northward, faster than human life could endure."But why drives on that ship so fast,Without or wave or wind?"
First Voice
The Mariner hath been cast into a trance; for the angelic power causeth the vessel to drive northward, faster than human life could endure."But why drives on that ship so fast,Without or wave or wind?"
The Mariner hath been cast into a trance; for the angelic power causeth the vessel to drive northward, faster than human life could endure.
Second Voice"The air is cut away before,And closes from behind.Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high!Or we shall be belated:For slow and slow that ship will go,When the Mariner's trance is abated."The supernatural motion is retarded; the Mariner awakes, and his penance begins anew.I woke, and we were sailing onAs in a gentle weather:'Twas night, calm night, the Moon was high;The dead men stood together.All stood together on the deck,For a charnel-dungeon fitter:All fixed on me their stony eyes,That in the Moon did glitter.The pang, the curse, with which they died,Had never passed away:I could not draw my eyes from theirs,Nor turn them up to pray.The curse is finally expiated,And now this spell was snapt: once moreI viewed the ocean green,And looked far forth, yet little sawOf what had else been seen—Like one, that on a lonesome roadDoth walk in fear and dread,And having once turned round, walks on,And turns no more his head;Because he knows, a frightful fiendDoth close behind him tread.But soon there breathed a wind on meNor sound nor motion made:Its path was not upon the sea,In ripple or in shade.It raised my hair, it fanned my cheekLike a meadow-gale of spring—It mingled strangely with my fears,Yet it felt like a welcoming.Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,Yet she sailed softly too:Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze—On me alone it blew.And the ancient Mariner beholdeth his native country.Oh dream of joy! is this indeedThe lighthouse top I see?Is this the hill? is this the kirk?Is this mine own countree?We drifted o'er the harbour-bar,And I with sobs did pray—"O let me be awake, my God!Or let me sleep alway."The harbour-bay was clear as glass,So smoothly it was strewn!And on the bay the moonlight lay,And the shadow of the moon.The rock shone bright, the kirk no less,That stands above the rock:The moonlight steeped in silentnessThe steady weathercock.The angelic spirits leave the dead bodies,And the bay was white with silent light,Till rising from the same,Full many shapes, that shadows were,In crimson colours came.And appear in their own forms of light.A little distance from the prowThose crimson shadows were:I turned my eyes upon the deck—Oh, Christ! what saw I there!Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,And, by the holy rood!A man all light, a seraph-man,On every corse there stood.This seraph-band, each waved his hand:It was a heavenly sight!They stood as signals to the land,Each one a lovely light:This seraph-band, each waved his hand,No voice did they impart—No voice; but oh! the silence sankLike music on my heart.But soon I heard the dash of oars,I heard the Pilot's cheer;My head was turned perforce away,And I saw a boat appear.The Pilot, and the Pilot's boy,I heard them coming fast:Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joyThe dead men could not blast.I saw a third—I heard his voice:It is the Hermit good!He singeth loud his godly hymnsThat he makes in the wood.He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash awayThe Albatross's blood.
Second Voice
"The air is cut away before,And closes from behind.
Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high!Or we shall be belated:For slow and slow that ship will go,When the Mariner's trance is abated."
The supernatural motion is retarded; the Mariner awakes, and his penance begins anew.I woke, and we were sailing onAs in a gentle weather:'Twas night, calm night, the Moon was high;The dead men stood together.
The supernatural motion is retarded; the Mariner awakes, and his penance begins anew.
All stood together on the deck,For a charnel-dungeon fitter:All fixed on me their stony eyes,That in the Moon did glitter.
The pang, the curse, with which they died,Had never passed away:I could not draw my eyes from theirs,Nor turn them up to pray.
The curse is finally expiated,And now this spell was snapt: once moreI viewed the ocean green,And looked far forth, yet little sawOf what had else been seen—
The curse is finally expiated,
Like one, that on a lonesome roadDoth walk in fear and dread,And having once turned round, walks on,And turns no more his head;Because he knows, a frightful fiendDoth close behind him tread.
But soon there breathed a wind on meNor sound nor motion made:Its path was not upon the sea,In ripple or in shade.
It raised my hair, it fanned my cheekLike a meadow-gale of spring—It mingled strangely with my fears,Yet it felt like a welcoming.
Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,Yet she sailed softly too:Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze—On me alone it blew.
And the ancient Mariner beholdeth his native country.Oh dream of joy! is this indeedThe lighthouse top I see?Is this the hill? is this the kirk?Is this mine own countree?
And the ancient Mariner beholdeth his native country.
We drifted o'er the harbour-bar,And I with sobs did pray—"O let me be awake, my God!Or let me sleep alway."
The harbour-bay was clear as glass,So smoothly it was strewn!And on the bay the moonlight lay,And the shadow of the moon.
The rock shone bright, the kirk no less,That stands above the rock:The moonlight steeped in silentnessThe steady weathercock.
The angelic spirits leave the dead bodies,And the bay was white with silent light,Till rising from the same,Full many shapes, that shadows were,In crimson colours came.
The angelic spirits leave the dead bodies,
And appear in their own forms of light.A little distance from the prowThose crimson shadows were:I turned my eyes upon the deck—Oh, Christ! what saw I there!
And appear in their own forms of light.
Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,And, by the holy rood!A man all light, a seraph-man,On every corse there stood.
This seraph-band, each waved his hand:It was a heavenly sight!They stood as signals to the land,Each one a lovely light:
This seraph-band, each waved his hand,No voice did they impart—No voice; but oh! the silence sankLike music on my heart.
But soon I heard the dash of oars,I heard the Pilot's cheer;My head was turned perforce away,And I saw a boat appear.
The Pilot, and the Pilot's boy,I heard them coming fast:Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joyThe dead men could not blast.
I saw a third—I heard his voice:It is the Hermit good!He singeth loud his godly hymnsThat he makes in the wood.He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash awayThe Albatross's blood.
PART VII
The Hermit of the Wood'This Hermit good lives in that woodWhich slopes down to the sea.How loudly his sweet voice he rears!He loves to talk of marineresThat come from a far countree.He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve—He hath a cushion plump:It is the moss that wholly hidesThe rotted old oak stump.The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk,"Why, this is strange, I trow!Where are those lights so many and fair,That signal made but now?"Approacheth the ship with wonder."Strange, by my faith!" the Hermit said—"And they answered not our cheer!The planks look warped! and see those sails,How thin they are and sere!I never saw aught like to them,Unless perchance it wereBrown skeletons of leaves that lagMy forest-brook along:When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,That eats the she-wolf's young.""Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look"—(The Pilot made reply)"I am a-feared"—"Push on, push on!"Said the Hermit cheerily.The boat came closer to the ship,But I nor spake nor stirred;The boat came close beneath the ship,And straight a sound was heard.The ship suddenly sinketh.Under the water it rumbled on,Still louder and more dread:It reached the ship, it split the bay;The ship went down like lead.The ancient Mariner is saved in the Pilot's boat.Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,Which sky and ocean smote,Like one that hath been seven days drowned,My body lay afloat;But swift as dreams, myself I foundWithin the Pilot's boat.Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,The boat spun round and round;And all was still, save that the hillWas telling of the sound.I moved my lips—the Pilot shriekedAnd fell down in a fit;The holy Hermit raised his eyes,And prayed where he did sit.I took the oars: the Pilot's boy,Who now doth crazy go,Laughed loud and long, and all the whileHis eyes went to and fro."Ha! ha!" quoth he, "full plain I see,The Devil knows how to row."And now, all in my own countree,I stood on the firm land!The Hermit stepped forth from the boat,And scarcely he could stand.The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the Hermit to shrieve him; and the penance of life falls on him."O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!"The Hermit crossed his brow."Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee say—What manner of man art thou?"Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenchedWith a woful agony,Which forced me to begin my tale;And then it left me free.And ever and anon throughout his future life and agony constraineth him to travel from land to land,Since then, at an uncertain hour,That agony returns;And till my ghastly tale is told,This heart within me burns.I pass, like night, from land to land;I have strange power of speech;That moment that his face I see,I know the man that must hear me:To him my tale I teach.What loud uproar bursts from that door!The wedding-guests are there;But in the garden-bower the brideAnd bride-maids singing are;And hark the little vesper bell,Which biddeth me to prayer!O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath beenAlone on a wide wide sea:So lonely 'twas, that God himselfScarce seemed there to be.O sweeter than the marriage-feast,'Tis sweeter far to me,To walk together to the kirkWith a goodly company!—To walk together to the kirk,And all together pray,While each to his great Father bends,Old men, and babes, and loving friends,And youths and maidens gay!And to teach by his own example, love and reverence to all things that God made and loveth.Farewell, farewell! but this I tellTo thee, thou Wedding-Guest!He prayeth well, who loveth wellBoth man and bird and beast.He prayeth best, who loveth bestAll things both great and small;For the dear God who loveth us,He made and loveth all.'The Mariner, whose eye is bright,Whose beard with age is hoar,Is gone; and now the Wedding-GuestTurned from the bridegroom's door.He went like one that hath been stunned,And is of sense forlorn:A sadder and a wiser man,He rose the morrow morn.
The Hermit of the Wood'This Hermit good lives in that woodWhich slopes down to the sea.How loudly his sweet voice he rears!He loves to talk of marineresThat come from a far countree.
The Hermit of the Wood
He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve—He hath a cushion plump:It is the moss that wholly hidesThe rotted old oak stump.
The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk,"Why, this is strange, I trow!Where are those lights so many and fair,That signal made but now?"
Approacheth the ship with wonder."Strange, by my faith!" the Hermit said—"And they answered not our cheer!The planks look warped! and see those sails,How thin they are and sere!I never saw aught like to them,Unless perchance it were
Approacheth the ship with wonder.
Brown skeletons of leaves that lagMy forest-brook along:When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,That eats the she-wolf's young."
"Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look"—(The Pilot made reply)"I am a-feared"—"Push on, push on!"Said the Hermit cheerily.
The boat came closer to the ship,But I nor spake nor stirred;The boat came close beneath the ship,And straight a sound was heard.
The ship suddenly sinketh.Under the water it rumbled on,Still louder and more dread:It reached the ship, it split the bay;The ship went down like lead.
The ship suddenly sinketh.
The ancient Mariner is saved in the Pilot's boat.Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,Which sky and ocean smote,Like one that hath been seven days drowned,My body lay afloat;But swift as dreams, myself I foundWithin the Pilot's boat.
The ancient Mariner is saved in the Pilot's boat.
Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,The boat spun round and round;And all was still, save that the hillWas telling of the sound.
I moved my lips—the Pilot shriekedAnd fell down in a fit;The holy Hermit raised his eyes,And prayed where he did sit.
I took the oars: the Pilot's boy,Who now doth crazy go,Laughed loud and long, and all the whileHis eyes went to and fro."Ha! ha!" quoth he, "full plain I see,The Devil knows how to row."
And now, all in my own countree,I stood on the firm land!The Hermit stepped forth from the boat,And scarcely he could stand.
The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the Hermit to shrieve him; and the penance of life falls on him."O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!"The Hermit crossed his brow."Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee say—What manner of man art thou?"
The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the Hermit to shrieve him; and the penance of life falls on him.
Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenchedWith a woful agony,Which forced me to begin my tale;And then it left me free.
And ever and anon throughout his future life and agony constraineth him to travel from land to land,Since then, at an uncertain hour,That agony returns;And till my ghastly tale is told,This heart within me burns.
And ever and anon throughout his future life and agony constraineth him to travel from land to land,
I pass, like night, from land to land;I have strange power of speech;That moment that his face I see,I know the man that must hear me:To him my tale I teach.
What loud uproar bursts from that door!The wedding-guests are there;But in the garden-bower the brideAnd bride-maids singing are;And hark the little vesper bell,Which biddeth me to prayer!
O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath beenAlone on a wide wide sea:So lonely 'twas, that God himselfScarce seemed there to be.
O sweeter than the marriage-feast,'Tis sweeter far to me,To walk together to the kirkWith a goodly company!—
To walk together to the kirk,And all together pray,While each to his great Father bends,Old men, and babes, and loving friends,And youths and maidens gay!
And to teach by his own example, love and reverence to all things that God made and loveth.Farewell, farewell! but this I tellTo thee, thou Wedding-Guest!He prayeth well, who loveth wellBoth man and bird and beast.
And to teach by his own example, love and reverence to all things that God made and loveth.
He prayeth best, who loveth bestAll things both great and small;For the dear God who loveth us,He made and loveth all.'
The Mariner, whose eye is bright,Whose beard with age is hoar,Is gone; and now the Wedding-GuestTurned from the bridegroom's door.
He went like one that hath been stunned,And is of sense forlorn:A sadder and a wiser man,He rose the morrow morn.
In good King Charles's golden days,When loyalty no harm meant,A zealous High Churchman was I,And so I got preferment;To teach my flock I never miss'd,Kings were by God appointed;And damn'd are those who do resist,Or touch the Lord's anointed.And this is law, that I'll maintain,Until my dying day, sir,That whatsoever King shall reign,I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.When royal James obtained the crown,And Pop'ry came in fashion,The penal laws I hooted down,And read the Declaration;The Church of Rome I found would fitFull well my constitution;And had become a Jesuit,But for the Revolution.When William was our King declared,To ease the nation's grievance,With this new wind about I steered,And swore to him allegiance;Old principles I did revoke,Set conscience at a distance;Passive obedience was a joke,A jest was non-resistance.When gracious Anne became our Queen,The Church of England's glory,Another face of things was seen,And I became a Tory;Occasional Conformists base,I damn'd their moderation,And thought the Church in danger was,By such prevarication.When George in pudding-time came o'er,And moderate men looked big, sir,I turned a cat-in-pan once more,And so became a Whig, sir;And thus preferment I procured,From our new faith's defender,And almost every day abjuredThe Pope and the Pretender.The illustrious house of Hanover,And Protestant succession,To these I do allegiance swear,While they can keep possession;For in my faith and loyaltyI never more will falter,And George my lawful King shall be,Until the times do alter.And this is law, that I'll maintain,Until my dying day, sir,That whatsoever King shall reign,I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.
In good King Charles's golden days,When loyalty no harm meant,A zealous High Churchman was I,And so I got preferment;To teach my flock I never miss'd,Kings were by God appointed;And damn'd are those who do resist,Or touch the Lord's anointed.
And this is law, that I'll maintain,Until my dying day, sir,That whatsoever King shall reign,I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.
When royal James obtained the crown,And Pop'ry came in fashion,The penal laws I hooted down,And read the Declaration;The Church of Rome I found would fitFull well my constitution;And had become a Jesuit,But for the Revolution.
When William was our King declared,To ease the nation's grievance,With this new wind about I steered,And swore to him allegiance;Old principles I did revoke,Set conscience at a distance;Passive obedience was a joke,A jest was non-resistance.
When gracious Anne became our Queen,The Church of England's glory,Another face of things was seen,And I became a Tory;Occasional Conformists base,I damn'd their moderation,And thought the Church in danger was,By such prevarication.
When George in pudding-time came o'er,And moderate men looked big, sir,I turned a cat-in-pan once more,And so became a Whig, sir;And thus preferment I procured,From our new faith's defender,And almost every day abjuredThe Pope and the Pretender.
The illustrious house of Hanover,And Protestant succession,To these I do allegiance swear,While they can keep possession;For in my faith and loyaltyI never more will falter,And George my lawful King shall be,Until the times do alter.
And this is law, that I'll maintain,Until my dying day, sir,That whatsoever King shall reign,I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.
But are ye sure the news is true?And are ye sure he's weel?Is this a time to think o' wark?Ye jauds, fling by your wheel.There's nae luck about the house,There's nae luck at a',There's nae luck about the house,When our gudeman's awa'.Is this a time to think o' wark,When Colin's at the door?Rax down my cloak—I'll to the key,And see him come ashore.Rise up and make a clean fireside,Put on the mickle pat;Gie little Kate her cotton goun,And Jock his Sunday's coat.And mak their shoon as black as slaes,Their stockins white as snaw;It's a' to pleasure our gudeman—He likes to see them braw.There are twa hens into the crib,Hae fed this month and mair,Mak haste and thraw their necks about,That Colin weel may fare.Bring down to me my bigonet,My bishop's sattin gown,For I maun tell the bailie's wife,That Colin's come to town.My Turkey slippers I'll put on,My stockins pearl blue—It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,For he's baith leal and true.Sae true his heart, sae smooth his tongue;His breath's like caller air;His very fit has music in 'tAs he comes up the stair.And will I see his face again?And will I hear him speak?I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought:In troth, I'm like to greet.
But are ye sure the news is true?And are ye sure he's weel?Is this a time to think o' wark?Ye jauds, fling by your wheel.There's nae luck about the house,There's nae luck at a',There's nae luck about the house,When our gudeman's awa'.
Is this a time to think o' wark,When Colin's at the door?Rax down my cloak—I'll to the key,And see him come ashore.
Rise up and make a clean fireside,Put on the mickle pat;Gie little Kate her cotton goun,And Jock his Sunday's coat.
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,Their stockins white as snaw;It's a' to pleasure our gudeman—He likes to see them braw.
There are twa hens into the crib,Hae fed this month and mair,Mak haste and thraw their necks about,That Colin weel may fare.
Bring down to me my bigonet,My bishop's sattin gown,For I maun tell the bailie's wife,That Colin's come to town.
My Turkey slippers I'll put on,My stockins pearl blue—It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,For he's baith leal and true.
Sae true his heart, sae smooth his tongue;His breath's like caller air;His very fit has music in 'tAs he comes up the stair.
And will I see his face again?And will I hear him speak?I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought:In troth, I'm like to greet.
I'm lonesome since I cross'd the hill,And o'er the moor and valley;Such heavy thoughts my heart do fill,Since parting with my Sally.I seek no more the fine or gay,For each does but remind meHow swift the hours did pass away,With the girl I've left behind me.Oh, ne'er shall I forget the nightThe stars were bright above me,And gently lent their silv'ry lightWhen first she vowed to love me.But now I'm bound to Brighton campKind Heaven, then, pray guide me,And send me safely back againTo the girl I've left behind me.My mind her form shall still retain,In sleeping, or in waking,Until I see my love again,For whom my heart is breaking.If ever I return that way,And she should not decline me,I evermore will live and stayWith the girl I've left behind me.
I'm lonesome since I cross'd the hill,And o'er the moor and valley;Such heavy thoughts my heart do fill,Since parting with my Sally.
I seek no more the fine or gay,For each does but remind meHow swift the hours did pass away,With the girl I've left behind me.
Oh, ne'er shall I forget the nightThe stars were bright above me,And gently lent their silv'ry lightWhen first she vowed to love me.But now I'm bound to Brighton campKind Heaven, then, pray guide me,And send me safely back againTo the girl I've left behind me.
My mind her form shall still retain,In sleeping, or in waking,Until I see my love again,For whom my heart is breaking.If ever I return that way,And she should not decline me,I evermore will live and stayWith the girl I've left behind me.
'Why does your brand so drop with blood?Edward! Edward!Why does your brand so drop with blood?And why so sad go ye, O?''O! I have killed my hawk so good,Mother! Mother!O! I have killed my hawk so good,And I have no more but he, O!''Your hawk's blood was never so red,Edward! Edward!Your hawk's blood was never so red,My dear son, I tell thee, O!''O! I have killed my red roan steed,Mother! Mother!O! I have killed my red roan steed,That once was fair and free, O!''Your steed was old and ye have got more,Edward! Edward!Your steed was old and ye have got more,Some other dule you drie, O!''O! I have killed my father dear,Mother! Mother!O! I have killed my father dear,Alas, and woe is me, O!''And what penance will ye drie for that?Edward! Edward!And what penance will ye drie for that?My dear son, now tell me, O!''I'll set my feet in yonder boat,Mother! Mother!I'll set my feet in yonder boat,And I'll fare over the sea, O!''And what will you do with your towers and your hall?Edward! Edward!And what will you do with your towers and your hall?They were so fair to see, O!''I'll let them stand till they down fall,Mother! Mother!I'll let them stand till they down fall,For here never more must I be, O!''And what will you leave to your bairns and your wife?Edward! Edward!And what will you leave to your bairns and your wife?When you go over the sea, O!''The world's room, let them beg through life,Mother! Mother!The world's room, let them beg through life,For them never more will I see, O!''And what will you leave to your own mother dear?Edward! Edward!And what will you leave to your own mother dear?My dear son, now tell me, O!''The curse of hell from me shall you bear,Mother! Mother!The curse of hell from me shall you bear,Such counsels you gave to me, O!'
'Why does your brand so drop with blood?Edward! Edward!Why does your brand so drop with blood?And why so sad go ye, O?'
'O! I have killed my hawk so good,Mother! Mother!O! I have killed my hawk so good,And I have no more but he, O!'
'Your hawk's blood was never so red,Edward! Edward!Your hawk's blood was never so red,My dear son, I tell thee, O!'
'O! I have killed my red roan steed,Mother! Mother!O! I have killed my red roan steed,That once was fair and free, O!'
'Your steed was old and ye have got more,Edward! Edward!Your steed was old and ye have got more,Some other dule you drie, O!'
'O! I have killed my father dear,Mother! Mother!O! I have killed my father dear,Alas, and woe is me, O!'
'And what penance will ye drie for that?Edward! Edward!And what penance will ye drie for that?My dear son, now tell me, O!'
'I'll set my feet in yonder boat,Mother! Mother!I'll set my feet in yonder boat,And I'll fare over the sea, O!'
'And what will you do with your towers and your hall?Edward! Edward!And what will you do with your towers and your hall?They were so fair to see, O!'
'I'll let them stand till they down fall,Mother! Mother!I'll let them stand till they down fall,For here never more must I be, O!'
'And what will you leave to your bairns and your wife?Edward! Edward!And what will you leave to your bairns and your wife?When you go over the sea, O!'
'The world's room, let them beg through life,Mother! Mother!The world's room, let them beg through life,For them never more will I see, O!'
'And what will you leave to your own mother dear?Edward! Edward!And what will you leave to your own mother dear?My dear son, now tell me, O!'
'The curse of hell from me shall you bear,Mother! Mother!The curse of hell from me shall you bear,Such counsels you gave to me, O!'
O Nanny, wilt thou go with me,Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town?Can silent glens have charms for thee,—The lowly cot and russet gown?No longer drest in silken sheen,No longer deck'd with jewels rare,—Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene,Where thou wert fairest of the fair?O Nanny, when thou'rt far away,Wilt thou not cast a wish behind?Say, canst thou face the parching ray,Nor shrink before the wintry wind?Oh, can that soft and gentle mienExtremes of hardship learn to bear,Nor sad, regret each courtly scene,Where thou wert fairest of the fair?O Nanny, canst thou love so true,Through perils keen with me to go,Or when thy swain mishap shall rue,To share with him the pang of woe?Say, should disease or pain befall,Wilt thou assume the nurse's care,Nor wistful those gay scenes recall,Where thou wert fairest of the fair?And when at last thy love shall die,Wilt thou receive his parting breath,Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,And cheer with smiles the bed of death?And wilt thou o'er his breathless clayStrew flowers and drop the tender tear,Nor then regret those scenes so gay,Where thou wert fairest of the fair?
O Nanny, wilt thou go with me,Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town?Can silent glens have charms for thee,—The lowly cot and russet gown?No longer drest in silken sheen,No longer deck'd with jewels rare,—Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene,Where thou wert fairest of the fair?
O Nanny, when thou'rt far away,Wilt thou not cast a wish behind?Say, canst thou face the parching ray,Nor shrink before the wintry wind?Oh, can that soft and gentle mienExtremes of hardship learn to bear,Nor sad, regret each courtly scene,Where thou wert fairest of the fair?
O Nanny, canst thou love so true,Through perils keen with me to go,Or when thy swain mishap shall rue,To share with him the pang of woe?Say, should disease or pain befall,Wilt thou assume the nurse's care,Nor wistful those gay scenes recall,Where thou wert fairest of the fair?
And when at last thy love shall die,Wilt thou receive his parting breath,Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,And cheer with smiles the bed of death?And wilt thou o'er his breathless clayStrew flowers and drop the tender tear,Nor then regret those scenes so gay,Where thou wert fairest of the fair?
It was a friar of orders grayWalk'd forth to tell his beads;And he met with a lady fairClad in a pilgrim's weeds.'Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar,I pray thee tell to me,If ever at yon holy shrineMy true love thou didst see.''And how should I know your true-loveFrom many another one?''Oh, by his cockle-hat and staff,And by his sandal shoon.'But chiefly by his face and mien,That were so fair to view;His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd,And eyes of lovely blue.''O lady, he is dead and gone!Lady, he's dead and gone!And at his head a green-grass turf,And at his heels a stone.'Within these holy cloisters longHe languish'd, and he diedLamenting of a lady's love,And 'plaining of her pride.'They bore him barefaced on his bierSix proper youths and tall,And many a tear bedew'd his graveWithin yon kirk-yard wall.''And art thou dead, thou gentle youthAnd art thou dead and gone;And didst thou die for love of me?Break, cruel heart of stone!''Oh, weep not, lady, weep not so,Some ghostly comfort seek;Let not vain sorrows rive thy heart,Nor tears bedew thy cheek.''Oh, do not, do not, holy friar,My sorrow now reprove;For I have lost the sweetest youthThat e'er won lady's love.'And now, alas! for thy sad lossI'll ever weep and sigh;For thee I only wish'd to live,For thee I wish to die.''Weep no more, lady, weep no more,Thy sorrow is in vain;For violets pluck'd, the sweetest showerWill ne'er make grow again.'Our joys as wingèd dreams do fly,Why then should sorrow last?Since grief but aggravates thy loss,Grieve not for what is past.''Oh, say not so, thou holy friar,I pray thee say not so;For since my true-love died for me,'Tis meet my tears should flow.'And will he never come again?Will he ne'er come again?Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave,For ever to remain.'His cheek was redder than the rose;The comeliest youth was he;But he is dead and laid in his grave:Alas, and woe is me!''Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more;Men were deceivers ever;One foot on sea and one on land,To one thing constant never.'Hadst thou been fond, he had been false,And left thee sad and heavy;For young men ever were fickle found,Since summer trees were leafy.''Now say not so, thou holy friar,I pray thee say not so;My love he had the truest heart,Oh, he was ever true!'And art thou dead, thou much lov'd youth,And didst thou die for me?Then farewell, home; for evermoreA pilgrim I will be.'But first upon my true-love's graveMy weary limbs I'll lay,And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turfThat wraps his breathless clay.''Yet stay, fair lady, rest a whileBeneath this cloister wall;See, through the thorn blows cold the windAnd drizzly rain doth fall.''Oh, stay me not, thou holy friar;Oh, stay me not, I pray;No drizzly rain that falls on meCan wash my fault away.''Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,And dry those pearly tears;For see, beneath this gown of greyThy own true-love appears.'Here, forced by grief and hopeless love,These holy weeds I sought,And here amid these lonely wallsTo end my days I thought.'But haply, for my year of graceIs not yet pass'd away,Might I still hope to win thy love,No longer would I stay.''Now farewell grief, and welcome joyOnce more unto my heart;For since I have found thee, lovely youth,We never more will part.'
It was a friar of orders grayWalk'd forth to tell his beads;And he met with a lady fairClad in a pilgrim's weeds.
'Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar,I pray thee tell to me,If ever at yon holy shrineMy true love thou didst see.'
'And how should I know your true-loveFrom many another one?''Oh, by his cockle-hat and staff,And by his sandal shoon.
'But chiefly by his face and mien,That were so fair to view;His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd,And eyes of lovely blue.'
'O lady, he is dead and gone!Lady, he's dead and gone!And at his head a green-grass turf,And at his heels a stone.
'Within these holy cloisters longHe languish'd, and he diedLamenting of a lady's love,And 'plaining of her pride.
'They bore him barefaced on his bierSix proper youths and tall,And many a tear bedew'd his graveWithin yon kirk-yard wall.'
'And art thou dead, thou gentle youthAnd art thou dead and gone;And didst thou die for love of me?Break, cruel heart of stone!'
'Oh, weep not, lady, weep not so,Some ghostly comfort seek;Let not vain sorrows rive thy heart,Nor tears bedew thy cheek.'
'Oh, do not, do not, holy friar,My sorrow now reprove;For I have lost the sweetest youthThat e'er won lady's love.
'And now, alas! for thy sad lossI'll ever weep and sigh;For thee I only wish'd to live,For thee I wish to die.'
'Weep no more, lady, weep no more,Thy sorrow is in vain;For violets pluck'd, the sweetest showerWill ne'er make grow again.
'Our joys as wingèd dreams do fly,Why then should sorrow last?Since grief but aggravates thy loss,Grieve not for what is past.'
'Oh, say not so, thou holy friar,I pray thee say not so;For since my true-love died for me,'Tis meet my tears should flow.
'And will he never come again?Will he ne'er come again?Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave,For ever to remain.
'His cheek was redder than the rose;The comeliest youth was he;But he is dead and laid in his grave:Alas, and woe is me!'
'Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more;Men were deceivers ever;One foot on sea and one on land,To one thing constant never.
'Hadst thou been fond, he had been false,And left thee sad and heavy;For young men ever were fickle found,Since summer trees were leafy.'
'Now say not so, thou holy friar,I pray thee say not so;My love he had the truest heart,Oh, he was ever true!
'And art thou dead, thou much lov'd youth,And didst thou die for me?Then farewell, home; for evermoreA pilgrim I will be.
'But first upon my true-love's graveMy weary limbs I'll lay,And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turfThat wraps his breathless clay.'
'Yet stay, fair lady, rest a whileBeneath this cloister wall;See, through the thorn blows cold the windAnd drizzly rain doth fall.'
'Oh, stay me not, thou holy friar;Oh, stay me not, I pray;No drizzly rain that falls on meCan wash my fault away.'
'Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,And dry those pearly tears;For see, beneath this gown of greyThy own true-love appears.
'Here, forced by grief and hopeless love,These holy weeds I sought,And here amid these lonely wallsTo end my days I thought.
'But haply, for my year of graceIs not yet pass'd away,Might I still hope to win thy love,No longer would I stay.'
'Now farewell grief, and welcome joyOnce more unto my heart;For since I have found thee, lovely youth,We never more will part.'
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,The ship was still as she could be,Her sails from heaven received no motion,Her keel was steady in the ocean.Without either sign or sound of their shockThe waves flow'd over the Inchcape Rock;So little they rose, so little they fell,They did not move the Inchcape Bell.The worthy Abbot of AberbrothockHad placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,And over the waves its warning rung.When the Rock was hid by the surge's swell,The mariners heard the warning bell;And then they knew the perilous Rock,And bless'd the Abbot of Aberbrothock.The Sun in heaven was shining gay,All things were joyful on that day;The sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd round,And there was joyaunce in the sound.The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen,A darker speck on the ocean green;Sir Ralph the Rover walk'd his deck,And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.He felt the cheering power of spring,It made him whistle, it made him sing;His heart was mirthful to excess,But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.His eye was on the Inchcape float;Quoth he, 'My men, put out the boat,And row me to the Inchcape Rock,And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothock.'The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row,And to the Inchcape Rock they go;Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,And he cut the Bell from the Inchcape float.Down sank the Bell with a gurgling sound,The bubbles arose and burst around;Quoth Sir Ralph, 'The next who comes to the RockWon't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothock.'Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away,He scour'd the seas for many a day;And now grown rich with plunder'd store,He steers his course for Scotland's shore.So thick a haze o'erspreads the skyThey cannot see the Sun on high;The wind hath blown a gale all day,At evening it hath died away.On deck the Rover takes his stand,So dark it is they see no land;Quoth Sir Ralph, 'It will be lighter soon,For there is the dawn of the rising Moon.''Canst hear,' said one, 'the breakers roar?For methinks we should be near the shore.''Now where we are I cannot tell,But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell.'They hear no sound, the swell is strong;Though the wind hath fallen they drift along,Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,—'Oh Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock!'Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair;He curst himself in his despair;But the waves rush in on every side,And the vessel sinks beneath the tide.
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,The ship was still as she could be,Her sails from heaven received no motion,Her keel was steady in the ocean.
Without either sign or sound of their shockThe waves flow'd over the Inchcape Rock;So little they rose, so little they fell,They did not move the Inchcape Bell.
The worthy Abbot of AberbrothockHad placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,And over the waves its warning rung.
When the Rock was hid by the surge's swell,The mariners heard the warning bell;And then they knew the perilous Rock,And bless'd the Abbot of Aberbrothock.
The Sun in heaven was shining gay,All things were joyful on that day;The sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd round,And there was joyaunce in the sound.
The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen,A darker speck on the ocean green;Sir Ralph the Rover walk'd his deck,And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.
He felt the cheering power of spring,It made him whistle, it made him sing;His heart was mirthful to excess,But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.
His eye was on the Inchcape float;Quoth he, 'My men, put out the boat,And row me to the Inchcape Rock,And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothock.'
The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row,And to the Inchcape Rock they go;Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,And he cut the Bell from the Inchcape float.
Down sank the Bell with a gurgling sound,The bubbles arose and burst around;Quoth Sir Ralph, 'The next who comes to the RockWon't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothock.'
Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away,He scour'd the seas for many a day;And now grown rich with plunder'd store,He steers his course for Scotland's shore.
So thick a haze o'erspreads the skyThey cannot see the Sun on high;The wind hath blown a gale all day,At evening it hath died away.
On deck the Rover takes his stand,So dark it is they see no land;Quoth Sir Ralph, 'It will be lighter soon,For there is the dawn of the rising Moon.'
'Canst hear,' said one, 'the breakers roar?For methinks we should be near the shore.''Now where we are I cannot tell,But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell.'
They hear no sound, the swell is strong;Though the wind hath fallen they drift along,Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,—'Oh Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock!'
Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair;He curst himself in his despair;But the waves rush in on every side,And the vessel sinks beneath the tide.
A Well there is in the west country,And a clearer one never was seen;There is not a wife in the west countryBut has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.An oak and an elm tree stand beside,And behind doth an ash-tree grow,And a willow from the bank aboveDroops to the water below.A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne;Joyfully he drew nigh,For from cock-crow he had been travelling,And there was not a cloud in the sky.He drank of the water so cool and clear,For thirsty and hot was he,And he sat down upon the bankUnder the willow-tree.There came a man from the house hard byAt the Well to fill his pail;On the Well-side he rested it,And he bade the stranger hail.'Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?' quoth he,'For an if thou hast a wife,The happiest draught thou hast drunk this dayThat ever thou didst in thy life.'Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast,Ever here in Cornwall been?For an if she have, I'll venture my lifeShe has drunk of the Well of St. Keyne.''I have left a good woman who never was here,'The stranger he made reply,'But that my draught should be the better for that,I pray you answer me why?''St. Keyne,' quoth the Cornish-man, 'many a timeDrank of this crystal Well,And before the angel summon'd her,She laid on the water a spell.'If the husband, of this gifted Well,Shall drink before his wife,A happy man thenceforth is he,For he shall be master for life.'But if the wife shall drink of it first,God help the husband then!'The stranger stoopt to the Well of St. Keyne,And drank of the water again.'You drank of the Well I warrant betimes?'He to the Cornish-man said:But the Cornish-man smiled as the stranger spake,And sheepishly shook his head.'I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done,And left my wife in the porch;But i' faith she had been wiser than me,For she took a bottle to church.'
A Well there is in the west country,And a clearer one never was seen;There is not a wife in the west countryBut has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.
An oak and an elm tree stand beside,And behind doth an ash-tree grow,And a willow from the bank aboveDroops to the water below.
A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne;Joyfully he drew nigh,For from cock-crow he had been travelling,And there was not a cloud in the sky.
He drank of the water so cool and clear,For thirsty and hot was he,And he sat down upon the bankUnder the willow-tree.
There came a man from the house hard byAt the Well to fill his pail;On the Well-side he rested it,And he bade the stranger hail.
'Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?' quoth he,'For an if thou hast a wife,The happiest draught thou hast drunk this dayThat ever thou didst in thy life.
'Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast,Ever here in Cornwall been?For an if she have, I'll venture my lifeShe has drunk of the Well of St. Keyne.'
'I have left a good woman who never was here,'The stranger he made reply,'But that my draught should be the better for that,I pray you answer me why?'
'St. Keyne,' quoth the Cornish-man, 'many a timeDrank of this crystal Well,And before the angel summon'd her,She laid on the water a spell.
'If the husband, of this gifted Well,Shall drink before his wife,A happy man thenceforth is he,For he shall be master for life.
'But if the wife shall drink of it first,God help the husband then!'The stranger stoopt to the Well of St. Keyne,And drank of the water again.
'You drank of the Well I warrant betimes?'He to the Cornish-man said:But the Cornish-man smiled as the stranger spake,And sheepishly shook his head.
'I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done,And left my wife in the porch;But i' faith she had been wiser than me,For she took a bottle to church.'
It was a summer evening,Old Kaspar's work was done,And he before his cottage doorWas sitting in the sun,And by sported on the greenHis little grandchild Wilhelmine.She saw her brother PeterkinRoll something large and round,Which he beside the rivuletIn playing there had found;He came to ask what he had found,That was so large, and smooth, and round.Old Kaspar took it from the boy,Who stood expectant by;And then the old man shook his head,And with a natural sigh,''Tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he,'Who fell in that great victory.'I find them in the garden,For there's many here about;And often when I go to plough,The ploughshare turns them out!For many thousand men,' said he,'Were slain in that great victory.''Now tell us what 'twas all about,'Young Peterkin he cries;And little Wilhelmine looks upWith wonder-waiting eyes;'Now tell us all about the war,And what they fought each other for.''It was the English,' Kaspar cried,'Who put the French to rout;But what they fought each other for,I could not well make out;But everybody said,' quoth he,'That 'twas a famous victory.'My father lived at Blenheim then,Yon little stream hard by;They burnt his dwelling to the ground,And he was forced to fly;So with his wife and child he fled,Nor had he where to rest his head.'With fire and sword the country roundWas wasted far and wide,And many a tender mother then,And new-born baby, died;But things like that, you know, must beAt every famous victory.'They say it was a shocking sightAfter the field was won;For many thousand bodies hereLay rotting in the sun;But things like that, you know, must beAfter a famous victory;'Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,And our good Prince Eugene.'—'Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!'Said little Wilhelmine.'Nay—nay—my little girl,' quoth he,'It was a famous victory;'And everybody praised the DukeWho this great fight did win.''But what good came of it at last?'Quoth little Peterkin.'Why, that I cannot tell,' said he,'But 'twas a famous victory.'
It was a summer evening,Old Kaspar's work was done,And he before his cottage doorWas sitting in the sun,And by sported on the greenHis little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother PeterkinRoll something large and round,Which he beside the rivuletIn playing there had found;He came to ask what he had found,That was so large, and smooth, and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,Who stood expectant by;And then the old man shook his head,And with a natural sigh,''Tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he,'Who fell in that great victory.
'I find them in the garden,For there's many here about;And often when I go to plough,The ploughshare turns them out!For many thousand men,' said he,'Were slain in that great victory.'
'Now tell us what 'twas all about,'Young Peterkin he cries;And little Wilhelmine looks upWith wonder-waiting eyes;'Now tell us all about the war,And what they fought each other for.'
'It was the English,' Kaspar cried,'Who put the French to rout;But what they fought each other for,I could not well make out;But everybody said,' quoth he,'That 'twas a famous victory.
'My father lived at Blenheim then,Yon little stream hard by;They burnt his dwelling to the ground,And he was forced to fly;So with his wife and child he fled,Nor had he where to rest his head.
'With fire and sword the country roundWas wasted far and wide,And many a tender mother then,And new-born baby, died;But things like that, you know, must beAt every famous victory.
'They say it was a shocking sightAfter the field was won;For many thousand bodies hereLay rotting in the sun;But things like that, you know, must beAfter a famous victory;
'Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,And our good Prince Eugene.'—'Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!'Said little Wilhelmine.'Nay—nay—my little girl,' quoth he,'It was a famous victory;
'And everybody praised the DukeWho this great fight did win.''But what good came of it at last?'Quoth little Peterkin.'Why, that I cannot tell,' said he,'But 'twas a famous victory.'