The wind wears roun', the day wears doun,
The moon is grisly grey;
There's nae man rides by the mirk muirsides,
Nor down the dark Tyne's way."
In, in, out and in,
Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.
"And winna ye watch the night wi' me,
And winna ye wake the morn?
Foul shame it were that your ae mither
Should brook her ae son's scorn."
In, in, out and in,
Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.
"O mither, I may not sleep nor stay,
My weird is ill to dree;
For a fause faint lord of the south seaboard
Wad win my bride of me."
In, in, out and in,
Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.
"The winds are strang, and the nights are lang,
And the ways are sair to ride:
And I maun gang to wreak my wrang,
And ye maun bide and bide."
In, in, out and in,
Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.
"Gin I maun bide and bide, Willie,
I wot my weird is sair:
Weel may ye get ye a light love yet,
But never a mither mair."
In, in, out and in,
Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.
"O gin the morrow be great wi' sorrow,
The wyte be yours of a':
But though ye slay me that haud and stay me,
The weird ye will maun fa'."
In, in, out and in,
Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.
When cocks were crawing and day was dawing,
He's boun' him forth to ride:
And the ae first may he's met that day
Was fause Earl Robert's bride.
In, in, out and in,
Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.
O blithe and braw were the bride-folk a',
But sad and saft rade she;
And sad as doom was her fause bridegroom,
But fair and fain was he.
In, in, out and in,
Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.
"And winna ye bide, sae saft ye ride,
And winna ye speak wi' me?
For mony's the word and the kindly word
I have spoken aft wi' thee."
In, in, out and in,
Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.
"My lamp was lit yestreen, Willie,
My window-gate was wide:
But ye camena nigh me till day came by me
And made me not your bride."
In, in, out and in,
Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.
He's set his hand to her bridle-rein,
He's turned her horse away:
And the cry was sair, and the wrath was mair,
And fast and fain rode they.
In, in, out and in,
Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.
But when they came by Chollerford,
I wot the ways were fell;
For broad and brown the spate swang down,
And the lift was mirk as hell.
In, in, out and in,
Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.
"And will ye ride yon fell water,
Or will ye bide for fear?
Nae scathe ye'll win o' your father's kin,
Though they should slay me here."
In, in, out and in,
Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.
"I had liefer ride yon fell water,
Though strange it be to ride,
Than I wad stand on the fair green strand,
And thou be slain beside."
In, in, out and in,
Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.
"I had liefer swim yon wild water,
Though sair it be to bide,
Than I wad stand at a strange man's hand,
To be a strange man's bride."
In, in, out and in,
Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.
"I had liefer drink yon dark water,
Wi' the stanes to make my bed,
And the faem to hide me, and thou beside me,
Than I wad see thee dead."
In, in, out and in,
Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.
He's kissed her twice, he's kissed her thrice,
On cheek and lip and chin:
He's wound her rein to his hand again,
And lightly they leapt in.
In, in, out and in,
Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.
Their hearts were high to live or die,
Their steeds were stark of limb:
But the stream was starker, the spate was
darker,
Than man might live and swim.
In, in, out and in,
Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.
The first ae step they strode therein,
It smote them foot and knee:
But ere they wan to the mid water
The spate was as the sea.
In, in, out and in,
Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.
But when they wan to the mid water,
It smote them hand and head:
And nae man knows but the wave that flows
Where they lie drowned and dead.
In, in, out and in,
Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.
——A. C. Swinburne.
Owhere will ye gang to and where will
ye sleep,
Against the night begins?"
"My bed is made wi' cauld sorrows,
My sheets are lined wi' sins.
"And a sair grief sitting at my foot,
And a sair grief at my head;
And dule to lay me my laigh pillows,
And teen till I be dead.
"And the rain is sair upon my face,
And sair upon my hair;
And the wind upon my weary mouth,
That never may man kiss mair.
"And the snow upon my heavy lips,
That never shall drink nor eat;
And shame to cledding, and woe to wedding,
And pain to drink and meat.
"But woe be to my bairns' father,
And ever ill fare he:
He has tane a braw bride hame to him,
Cast out my bairns and me."
"And what shall they have to their marriage
meat
This day they twain are wed?"
"Meat of strong crying, salt of sad sighing,.
And God restore the dead.
"And what shall they have to their wedding
wine
This day they twain are wed?"
"Wine of weeping, and draughts of sleeping,
And God raise up the dead."
She's tane her to the wild woodside,
Between the flood and fell:
She's sought a rede against her need
Of the fiend that bides in hell.
She's tane her to the wan burnside,
She's wrought wi' sang and spell:
She's plighted her soul for doom and dole
To the fiend that bides in hell.
She's set her young son to her breast,
Her auld son to her knee:
Says, "Weel for you the night, bairnies,
And weel the morn for me."
She looked fu' lang in their een, sighing,
And sair and sair grat she:
She has slain her young son at her breast,
Her auld son at her knee.
She's sodden their flesh wi' saft water,
She's mixed their blood with wine:
She's tane her to the braw bride-house,
Where a' were boun' to dine.
She poured the red wine in his cup,
And his een grew fain to greet:
She set the baked meats at his hand,
And bade him drink and eat.
Says, "Eat your fill of your flesh, my lord,
And drink your fill of your wine j
For a' thing's yours and only yours
That has been yours and mine."
Says, "Drink your fill of your wine, my lord,
And eat your fill of your bread:
I would they were quick in my body again,
Or I that bare them dead."
He struck her head frae her fair body,
And dead for grief he fell:
And there were twae mair sangs in heaven,
And twae mair sauls in hell.
——A. C. Swinburne.
9069Original
This fell when Christmas lights were done,
Red rose leaves will never make wine;
But before the Easter lights begun;
The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.
Two lovers sat where the rowan blows
And all the grass is heavy and fine,
By the gathering place of the sea-swallows
When the wind brings them over Tyne.
Blossom of broom will never make bread,
Red rose leaves will never make winej
Between her brows she is grown red,
That was full white in the fields by Tyne.
"O what is this thing ye have on,
Show me now, sweet daughter of. mine?"
"O father, this is my little son
That I found hid in the sides of Tyne.
"O what will ye give my son to eat,
Red rose leaves will never make wine?"
"Fen water and adder's meat,
The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.'
"Or what will ye get my son to wear,
Red rose leaves will never make wine?"
"A weed and a web of nettle's hair,
The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne."
"Or what will ye take to line his bed,
Red rose leaves will never make wine?"
"Two black stones at the kirkwall's head,
The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.
"Or what will ye give my son for land,
Red rose leaves will never make wine?"
"Three girl's paces of red sand,
The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne."
"Or what will ye give me for my son,
Red rose leaves will never make wine?"
"Six times to kiss his young mouth on,
The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne."
"But what have ye done with the bearing-bread,
And what have ye made of the washing-wine?
Or where have ye made your bearing-bed,
To bear a son in the sides of Tyne?"
"The bearing-bread is soft and new,
There is no soil in the straining wine;
The bed was made between green and blue,
It stands full soft by the sides of Tyne.
"The fair grass was my bearing-bread,
The well-water my washing-wine;
The low leaves were my bearing-bed,
And that was best in the sides of Tyne."
"O daughter, if ye have done this thing,
I wot the greater grief is mine;
This was a bitter child-bearing,
When ye were got by the sides of Tyne.
"About the time of sea-swallows
That fly full thick by six and nine,
Ye'll have my body out of the house,
To bury me by the sides of Tyne.
"Set nine stones by the wall for twain,
Red rose leaves will never make wine;
For the bed I take will measure ten,
The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.
"Tread twelve girl's paces out for three,
Red rose leaves will never make wine;
For the pit I made has taken me,
The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne."
——A. C. Swinburne.
0072m
We were ten maidens in the green corn,
Small red leaves in the mill-water:
Fairer maidens never were born,
Apples of gold for the king's daughter.
We were ten maidens by a well-head,
Small white birds in the mill-water:
Sweeter maidens never were wed,
Rings of red for the king's daughter.
The first to spin, the second to sing,
Seeds of wheat in the mill-water;
The third may was a goodly thing,
White bread and brown for the king's daughter.
The fourth to sew and the fifth to play,
Fair green weed in the mill-water;
The sixth may was a goodly may,
White wine and red for the king's daughter.
The seventh to woo, the eighth to wed,
Fair thin reeds in the mill-water;
The ninth had gold work on her head,
Honey in the comb for the king's daughter.
The ninth had gold work round her hair,
Fallen flowers in the mill-water;
The tenth may was goodly and fair,
Golden gloves for the king's daughter.
We were ten maidens in a field green,
Fallen fruit in the mill-water;
Fairer maidens never had been,
Golden sleeves for the king's daughter.
By there comes the king's young son,
A little wind in the mill-water;
"Out of ten maidens ye'll grant me one,"
A crown of red for the king's daughter.
"Out of ten mays ye'll give me the best,"
A little rain in the mill-water;
A bed of yellow straw for all the rest,
A bed of gold for the king's daughter.
He's ta'en out the goodliest,
Rain that rains in the mill-water;
A comb of yellow shell for all the rest,
A comb of gold for the king's daughter.
He's made her bed to the goodliest,
Wind and hail in the mill-water;
A grass girdle for all the rest,
A girdle of arms for the king's daughter.
He's set his heart to the goodliest,
Snow that snows in the mill-water;
Nine little kisses for all the rest,
An hundredfold for the king's daughter.
He's ta'en his leave at the goodliest,
Broken boats in the mill-water;
Golden gifts for all the rest,
Sorrow of heart for the king's daughter.
"Ye'll make a grave for my fair body,"
Running rain in the mill-water;
"And ye'll streek my brother at the side of me,"
The pains of hell for the king's daughter.
——A. C. Swinburne.
The still white coast at Midsummer,
Beside the still white sea,
Lay low and smooth and shining
In this year eighty-three;
The sun was in the very North,
Strange to see.
The walrus ivory lay in heaps
Half-buried in the shore,
The slow stream slid o'er unknown beds
Of golden ore,
Washings of amber to the beach
Light waves bore.
Sprays of white, like foam-flowers,
Betwixt the skies and seas,
Swayed and poised the sea-gulls
In twos and threes,
Clustered like the stars men call
Pleiades.
The white marsh-flowers, the white
marsh-grass
Shimmered amid the grey
Of the marsh-water—mirrored
Over and under, they
Stood stiff and tall and slender,
All one way.
The upper spake to the lower,
"Are ye, or do ye seem?"
Out of the dim marsh-water
Glided as in a dream
The still swans down a distance
Of moonbeam.
The willow-warbler dropped from the spray
Sweet notes like a soft spring shower,
There was a twitter of building birds
In the blackthorn bower,
All broken from bare to gossamer
In an hour.
A garden white lay all the land
In wreaths of summer snow,
The heart of the year upspringing
Swift and aglow,
In pale flame and slender stalk,
Smooth and low.
The white heath and white harebell
Let their chimes rise and fall,
The delicate sheets of wood-sorrel
Unfolded all,
For a bed of bridal—
Or a pall?
Powdered with pearl, auriculas,
And beds of snowdrop sheen,
Frostwork of saxifrage, and fair balls
Of winter green:
There was no room for foot to pass
In between.
One only pink, the fragrant bloom
Of all blooms boreal,
Every face of every flower
With looks funereal
Bent to earth, and faintly
Flowering all.
Down in the closely crowded camp
Of the fresh snowdrops lay,
Fever and famine-stricken,
None his name to say,
Sick to death, a traveller
Cast away.
Brother might be of Balder
The beautiful, the bold,
By Northern stature and by limbs'
Heroic mould,
And the uncurled faint hair
Of pale gold.
Faintly the words were uttered,
Low, betwixt moan and moan:
"Here in the wilderness,
Lost and alone,
I die, and far away,
Hast thou known?
"Fame, and story of wonder,
Wind of rumour had blown
My name to thine, my feet
Up to thy throne:
What has the world been since?—
Thee alone.
"I passed and bowed before thy face,
And once thine eyes met mine;
Once I have kissed thy hand;—
Hast thou no sign?
Here with my last sad breath
I am thine."
The white hares nibbled fearlessly
Among the tender green;
The silver foxes stayed and watched,
Quick-eyed and keen;
The little ermine soft of foot
Stole between.
But the white world changed and
quickened
To a red world, the same;
For with splendour as of sunset
And sunrise flame,
From the highest heaven to the lowest,
Midnight came.
The pulsing colours of the sky
Deepened and purified;
All glorious chords of gold and red
Struck out and died;
Stilled in one heavenly harmony
Spread out wide,
In one ethereal crimson glow;
As if the Rose of Heaven
Had blossomed for one perfect hour,
Midsummer Even,
As ever in the mystic sphere
Of stars seven.
An opening blush of purest pink,
That swiftly streams and grows
As shoreward all the liquid waste
Enkindled flows,
Every ripple of all the sea
Rose on Rose.
—Through the heavens of midnight
Came a bitter cry,
Flesh and spirit breaking,
Mortal agony;
Died away unanswered
Through the sky.—
But all the dim blue South was filled
With the auroral flame,
Far out into the southward land
Without a name
That dreamed away into the dark,—
When One came,
Suddenly came stepping,
Where the roseate rift
Of the boreal blossoms
Crossed the snowy drift
In a trailing pathway,
Straight and swift.
Her robes were full and silken,
Her feet were silken-shod,
In sweeping stately silence,
Serene she trod
The starry carpets strewing
The soft sod.
The eyes of the veronica
Looked out and far away,
A golden wreath around her head
Of light curls lay,
And rippled back a shining shower,
In bright array.
About her neck the diamonds flashed
In rivers of blue fire;
But whiter her soft shoulders than
Her white attire,
And tenderer her tender arms
Than heart's desire.
She fronted full the crimson flood
Of all the Northern space,
And all the hue of all the sky
Was in her face;
The Rose of all the World has come
To this place.
A vision of white that glowed to red
With the fire at heaven, at heart,—
Nor paused nor turned,—but straight to
him
Who lay apart,
On she came, and knelt by him,—
Here thou art!
At the first hour after midnight,
As in the eider's nest,
The weary head sank soft into
A heavenly rest;
Is it a bed of roses,—
Or her breast?
At the second hour the cold limbs
Felt comfort unaware;
Flickering, a golden glow
Warmed all the air:
Is it the hearth-flame lighted,—
Or her hair?
At the third hour, round the faint heart
Failing in chill alarms,
Is it some silken coverlet
Still wraps and warms
In close and closer clasping?—
Or her arms?
At the fourth hour, to the wan lips
There came a draught divine:
Some last reviving cup poured out
Of hallowed wine,—
Or is it breath of hers
Mixed with thine?
At the fifth hour all was dimness
Alike to him and her;
One low and passionate murmur
Still moved the air;
Is it the voice of angels,—
Or her prayer?
At the sixth hour there stirred only
The soft wave on the beach;
Two were lying stilly,
Past sound or speech,
Fair and carven faces,
Each by each.