My parents bow, and lead them forth,
For all the crowd to see-
Ah well! the people might not care
Oh she tripped over Ocknell plain,
And down by Bradley Water;
And the fairest maid on the forest side
Wearily stretches the sand to the surge, and the surge to the cloudland;
Wearily onward I ride, watching the water alone.
Wild wild wind, wilt thou never cease thy sighing?
Dark dark night, wilt thou never wear away?
Cold cold church, in thy death sleep lying,
Soft soft wind, from out the sweet south sliding,
Waft thy silver cloud webs athwart the summer sea;
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark sings high in the dark.
The were wolves mutter, the night hawks moan,
The raven croaks from the Raven-stone;
A King is dead! Another master mind
Is summoned from the world-wide council hall.
Ah, for some seer, to say what links behind-
Yon sound's neither sheep-bell nor bark,
They're running-they're running, Go hark!
The sport may be lost by a moment's delay;
How will it dawn, the coming Christmas Day?
A northern Christmas, such as painters love,
And kinsfolk, shaking hands but once a year,
Come away with me, Tom,
Term and talk are done;
My poor lads are reaping,
Busy every one.