The Haunted Hour Part 24

Or is it Molly Reilly's death She cries until the day?

Now Molly thinks her man has gone A sailor lad to be; She puts a candle at her door Each night for him to see.

But he is off to Galway town, (And who dare tell her this?) Enchanted by a woman's eyes, Half-maddened by her kiss.

So as we go by Molly's door We look towards the sea, And say, "May G.o.d bring home your lad Wherever he may be."

I pray it may be Molly's self The banshee keens and cries, For who dare breathe the tale to her, Be it her man who dies?

But there is sorrow on the way, For I tonight have seen A banshee in the shadow pa.s.s Along the dark boreen.

THE SEVEN WHISTLERS: ALICE E. GILLINGTON

Whistling strangely, whistling sadly, whistling sweet and clear, The Seven Whistlers have pa.s.sed thy house, Pentruan of Porthmeor; It was not in the morning, nor the noonday's golden grace, It was in the dead waste midnight, when the tide yelped loud in the Race: The tide swings round in the Race, and they're plaining whisht and low, And they come from the gray sea-marshes, where the gray sea-lavenders grow, And the cotton-gra.s.s sways to and fro; And the gore-sprent sundews thrive With oozy hands alive.

Canst hear the curlews' whistle through thy dreamings dark and drear, How they're crying, crying, crying, Pentruan of Porthmeor?

Shall thy hatchment, mouldering grimly in yon church amid the sands, Stay trouble from thy household? Or the carven cherub-hands Which hold thy s.h.i.+eld to the font? Or the gauntlets on the wall Keep evil from its onward course as the great tides rise and fall?

The great tides rise and fall, and the cave sucks in the breath Of the wave when it runs with tossing spray, and the ground-sea rattles of Death; "I rise in the shallows," 'a saith, "Where the mermaid's kettle sings, And the black s.h.a.g flaps his wings!"

Ay, the green sea-mountain leaping may lead horror in its rear, When thy drenched sail leans to its yawning trough, Pentruan of Porthmeor!

Yet the stoup waits at thy doorway for its load of glittering ore, And thy s.h.i.+ps lie in the tideway, and thy flocks along the moore; And thine arishes gleam softly when the October moonbeams wane, When in the bay all s.h.i.+ning the fishers set the seine; The fishers cast the seine, and 'tis "Heva!" in the town, And from the watch-rock on the hill the huers are shouting down; And ye hoist the mainsail brown, As over the deep-sea roll The lurker follows the shoal; To follow and to follow, in the moons.h.i.+ne silver-clear, When the halyards creek to thy dipping sail, Pentruan of Porthmeor!

And wailing, and complaining, and whistling whisht and clear, The Seven Whistlers have pa.s.sed thy house, Pentruan of Porthmeor!

It was not in the morning, nor the noonday's golden grace,-- It was in the fearsome midnight, when the tide-dogs yelped in the Race: The tide swings round in the Race, and they're whistling whisht and low, And they come from the lonely heather, where the fur-edged fox-gloves blow, And the moor-gra.s.s sways to and fro, Where the yellow moor-birds sigh, And the sea-cooled wind sweeps by.

Canst hear the curlew's whistle through the darkness wild and drear,-- How they're calling, calling, calling, Pentruan of Porthmeor?

THE VICTOR: THEODOSIA GARRISON

_The live man victorious_ _Rode spurring from the fight;_ _In a glad voice and glorious_ _He sang of his delight,_ _And dead men three, foot-loose and free,_ _Came after in the night._

And one laid hand on his bridle-rein-- Swift as the steed he sped-- "O, ride you fast, yet at the last, Hate faster rides," he said.

"My sons shall know their father's foe One day when blades are red."

And one laid hand on his stirrup-bar Like touch o' driven mist, "For joy you slew ere joy I knew, For one girl's mouth unkissed, At your board's head, at ma.s.s, at bed, My pale ghost shall persist."

And one laid hands on his own two hands, "O Brother o' mine," quoth he, "What can I give to you who live Like gift you gave to me?

Since from grief and strife and ache o' life Your sword-stroke set me free."

_The live man victorious_ _Rode spurring from the fight;_ _In a glad voice and glorious_ _He sang of his delight,_ _And dead men three, foot-loose and free,_ _Came after in the night._

MAWGAN OF MELHUACH: ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER

'Twas a fierce night when old Mawgan died: Men shuddered to hear the rolling tide: The wreckers fled fast from the awful sh.o.r.e, They had heard strange voices amid the roar.

"Out with the boat there," someone cried,-- "Will he never come? We shall lose the tide: His berth is trim and his cabin stored, He's a weary long time coming aboard."

The old man struggled upon the bed: He knew the words that the voices said; Wildly he shrieked as his eyes grew dim, "He was dead! He was dead when I buried him."

Hark yet again to the devilish roar!

"He was nimbler once with a s.h.i.+p on sh.o.r.e; Come, come, old man, 'tis a vain delay, We must make the offing by break of day."

Hard was the struggle, but at the last With a stormy pang old Mawgan pa.s.sed, And away, away, beneath their sight, Gleamed the red sail at pitch of night.

THE MOTHER'S GHOST: HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade; _I myself was young._ There he has wooed him so winsome a maid; _Fair words gladden so many a heart._

Together were they for seven years, And together children six were theirs;

Then came Death abroad through the land, And blighted the beautiful lily-wand.

Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade, And again hath he wooed him another maid.

He hath wooed him a maid and brought home a bride, But she was bitter and full of pride.

When she came driving into the yard, There stood the six children weeping so hard.

There stood the small children with sorrowful heart; From before her feet she thrust them apart.

She gave to them neither ale nor bread; "Ye shall suffer hunger and hate," she said.

She took from them their quilts of blue, And said, "Ye shall lie on the straw we strew."

She took from them the great wax light, "Now ye shall lie in the dark at night."

In the evning late they cried with cold, The mother heard it under the mould.

The woman heard it in the earth below: "To my little children I must go."

She standeth before the Lord of all: "And may I go to my children small?"

She prayed Him so long and would not cease, Until He bade her depart in peace.

"At c.o.c.k-crow thou shalt return again; Longer thou shalt not there remain!"

She girded up her sorrowful bones, And rifted the walls and the marble stones.

As through the village she flitted by, The watch-dogs howled aloud to the sky.

When she came to the castle gate, There stood her eldest daughter in wait.

"Why standest thou here, dear daughter mine?

How fares it with brothers and sisters thine?"

"Never art thou mother of mine, For my mother was both fair and fine.