SHAPES OF DOOM

At night when sick folk wakeful lie, I heard the dead coach passing by, Heard it passing wild and fleet, And knew my time had come not yet. Click-clack, click-clack, the hoofs went past, Who takes the dead coach travels fast, On and away through the wild night, The dead must rest ere morning light. If one might follow on its track, The coach and horses midnight black, Within should sit a shape of doom That beckons one and all to come. God pity them to-night who wait To hear the dead coach at their gate, And him who hears, though sense be dim, The mournful dead coach stop for him. He shall go down with a still face, And mount the steps and take his place, The door be shut, the order said, How fast the pace is with the dead! Click-clack, click-clack, the hour is chill, The dead coach climbs the distant hill. Now, God, the Father of us all, Wipe Thou the widow's tears that fall!

'Tis They, of a veritie— They are calling thin an' shrill; We maun rise an' put to sea, We maun gi'e the deid their will, We maun ferry them owre the faem, For they draw us as they list; We maun bear the deid folk hame Through the mirk an' the saft sea-mist. "But how can I gang the nicht, When I'm new come hame frae sea? When my heart is sair for the sicht O' my lass that langs for me?" "O your lassie lies asleep, An' sae do your bairnes twa; The cliff-path's stey and steep, An' the deid folk cry an' ca'." O sae hooly steppit we, For the nicht was mirk an' lown, Wi' never a sign to see, But the voices all aroun'. We laid to the saut sea-shore, An' the boat dipped low i' th' tide, As she micht hae dipped wi' a score, An' our ain three sel's beside. O the boat she settled low, Till her gunwale kissed the faem, An' she didna loup nor row As she bare the deid folk hame; But she aye gaed swift an' licht, An' we naething saw nor wist, Wha sailed i' th' boat that nicht Through the mirk an' the saft sea-mist. There was never a sign to see, But a misty shore an' low; Never a word spak' we, But the boat she lichtened slow, An' a cauld sigh stirred my hair, An' a cauld hand touched my wrist, An' my heart sank cauld and sair I' the mirk an' the saft sea-mist. Then the wind raise up wi' a maen, ('Twas a waefu' wind, an' weet). Like a deid saul wud wi' pain, Like a bairnie wild wi' freit; But the boat rade swift an' licht, Sae we wan the land fu' sune, An' the shore showed wan an' white By a glint o' the waning mune. We steppit oot owre the sand Where an unco' tide had been, An' Black Donald caught my hand An' coverit up his een: For there, in the wind an' weet, Or ever I saw nor wist, My Jean an' her weans lay cauld at my feet, In the mirk an' the saft sea-mist. An' it's O for my bonny Jean! An' it's O for my bairnies twa, It's O an' O for the watchet een An' the steps that are gane awa'— Awa' to the Silent Place, Or ever I saw nor wist, Though I wot we twa went face to face Through the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.

The murmur of the mourning ghost That keeps the shadowy kine, "Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!" Ravelston, Ravelston, The stile beneath the tree, The maid that kept her mother's kine, The song that sang she! She sang her song, she kept her kine, She sat beneath the thorn When Andrew Keith of Ravelston Rode through the Monday morn; His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring, His belted jewels shine! Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! Year after year, where Andrew came, Comes evening down the glade, And still there sits a moonshine ghost Where sat the sunshine maid. Her misty hair is faint and fair, She keeps the shadowy kine; Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! I lay my hands upon the stile, The stile is lone and cold. The burnie that goes babbling by Says naught that can be told. Yet, stranger! here from year to year, She keeps her shadowy kine; Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! Step out three steps where Andrew stood,— Why blanch thy cheeks for fear? The ancient stile is not alone, 'Tis not the burn I hear! She makes her immemorial moan, She keeps her shadowy kine, Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!

"What makes you so late at the tryst, What caused you so long to be? I have waited a weary time For the hour you promised me." "Oh, glad were I here by your side, Full many an hour ago, But for what there passed on the road All so mournfully and so slow." "And what have you met on the road That kept you so long and so late?" "O full many an hour has gone Since I left my father's gate. "As I hastened on in the gloom, By the road to you tonight, I passed the corpse of a young maid All clad in a shroud of white." "And was she some friend once cherished, Or was she a sister dead, That you left your own true lover Till the trysting hour had sped?" "I could not see who it might be, Her face was hidden away, But I had to turn and follow Wherever her resting lay." "And did it go up by the town, Or went it down by the lake? I know there are but two church yards Where a corpse its rest may take." "They did not go by the town, Nor by the lake stayed their feet, But buried the corpse all silently Where the four cross roads meet." "And was it so strange a sight That you should go like a child Thus to leave me to wait, forgotten, By a passing sight beguiled?" "Oh, I heard them whisper my name, Each mourner that passed by me; And I had to follow their path, Though their faces I could not see." "And right well I would like to know Who this fair young maid might be, So take my hand, my own true love, And hasten along with me." He did not go down by the lake He did not go by the town, But carried her to the four cross roads, And there he did set her down. "Now I see no track of a foot, I see no mark of a spade, And I know well in this white road There never a grave was made." He took her hand in his right hand, And he led her to town away, And there he questioned the old priest, Did he bury a maid that day. He took her hand in his right hand, Down to the church by the lake, And there he questioned a young priest, If a maiden her life did take. But there was no tale of death In all the parish round, And neither had heard of a maid Thus put in unholy ground. He loosed her hand from his hand, And turned on his heel away. "I know you are false," he said, "From the lie you told today." And she said, "Oh, what evil things Did tonight my senses take?" She knelt down by the water side And wept as her heart would break. And she said, "Oh, what fairy sight Was it thus my grief to see! I'll sleep well 'neath the still water, Since my love has turned on me." And her love he went to the north, And far to the south went he, But still he heard her distant voice Call, weeping so bitterly. He could not rest in the daytime, He could not sleep in the night, Hastened back to the old road, With the trysting-place in sight. What first he heard was his love's name, And keening both loud and long; What first he saw was his love's face At the head of a mourning throng. And white she was as the dead are, And never a move made she, But passed him by on her black pall, Still sleeping so peacefully. And cold she was as the dead are, And never a word she spake, When they said, "Unholy is her grave, Since she her life did take." Silent she was, as the dead are, And never a cry she made When there came, more sad than the keening, The ring of a digging spade. No rest they gave in the town church, No grave by the lake so sweet, But buried her in unholy ground, Where the four cross roads do meet.

God be between us and all harm, For I to-night have seen A banshee in the shadow pass Along the dark boreen. And as she went she keened and cried, And combed her long white hair, She stopped at Molly Reilly's door, And sobbed till midnight there. And is it for himself she moans, Who is so far away? 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 God 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 pass Along the dark boreen.

Whistling strangely, whistling sadly, whistling sweet and clear, The Seven Whistlers have passed 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-grass 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 shield 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 shag 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 ships 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 shining 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 moonshine 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 passed 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-grass 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 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 mass, 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.

'Twas a fierce night when old Mawgan died: Men shuddered to hear the rolling tide: The wreckers fled fast from the awful shore, 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 ship on shore; 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 passed, And away, away, beneath their sight, Gleamed the red sail at pitch of night.

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 cock-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. "My mother was white, with cheeks of red, But thou art pale and like to the dead." "How should I be fair and fine? I have been dead; pale cheeks are mine. "How should I be white and red, So long, so long have I been dead?" When she came in at the chamber door, There stood the small children weeping sore. One she braided and one she brushed, The third she lifted, the fourth she hushed. The fifth she took on her lap and pressed, As if she would suckle it at her breast. Then to her eldest daughter said she, "Do thou bid Svend Dyring come hither to me." Into the chamber when he came She spake to him in anger and shame. "I left behind me both ale and bread; My children hunger and are not fed. "I left behind me the quilts of blue; My children lie on the straw ye strew. "I left behind me the great wax light; My children lie in the dark at night. "If I come again into your hall, As cruel a fate shall you befall! "Now crows the cock with feathers red, Back to the earth must all the dead. "Now crows the cock with feathers swart; The gates of heaven fly wide apart. "Now crows the cock with feathers white; I can abide no longer to-night." Whenever they heard the watch-dogs wail, They gave the children bread and ale. Whenever they heard the watch-dogs bay, They feared lest the dead were on their way. Whenever they heard the watch-dogs bark, I myself was young. They feared the dead out there in the dark. Fair words gladden so many a heart.

As I lay asleep, as I lay asleep, Under the grass as I lay so deep, As I lay asleep in my cotton serk Under the shade of Our Lady's Kirk, I waken'd up in the dead of night, I waken'd up in my death-serk white, And I heard a cry from far away, And I knew the voice of my daughter May: "Mother, Mother, come hither to me! Mother, Mother, come hither and see! Mother, Mother, Mother dear, Another Mother is sitting here: My body is bruised and in pain I cry, On straw in the dark afraid I lie, I thirst and hunger for drink and meat, And Mother, Mother, to sleep were sweet!" I heard the cry, though my grave was deep, And awoke from sleep, and awoke from sleep.

I awoke from sleep, I awoke from sleep, Up I rose from my grave so deep! The earth was black, but overhead The stars were yellow, the moon was red; And I walk'd along all white and thin, And lifted the latch and enter'd in, And reached the chamber as dark as night, And though it was dark, my face was white: "Mother, Mother, I look on thee! Mother, Mother, you frighten me! For your cheeks are thin and your hair is gray!" But I smiled and kissed her fears away, I smooth'd her hair and I sang a song, And on my knee I rocked her long: "O Mother, Mother, sing low to me— I am sleepy now, and I cannot see!" I kissed her, but I could not weep, And she went to sleep, and she went to sleep.

As we lay asleep, as we lay asleep, My May and I, in our grave so deep, As we lay asleep in the midnight mirk, Under the shade of Our Lady's Kirk, I waken'd up in the dead of night, Though May my daughter lay warm and white, For I heard the cry of a little one, And I knew 'twas the voice of Hugh my son: "Mother, Mother, come hither to me; Mother, Mother, come hither and see! Mother, Mother, Mother dear, Another Mother is sitting here: My body is bruised and my heart is sad, But I speak my mind and call them bad; I thirst and hunger night and day, And were I strong I would fly away!" I heard the cry, though my grave was deep, And awoke from sleep, and awoke from sleep!

I awoke from sleep, I awoke from sleep, Up I rose from my grave so deep, The earth was black, but overhead The stars were yellow, the moon was red; And I walk'd along all white and thin, And lifted the latch and enter'd in. "Mother, Mother, and art thou here? I know your face and I feel no fear; Raise me, Mother, and kiss my cheek, For oh I am weary and sore and weak." I smoothed his hair with a mother's joy, And he laugh'd aloud, my own brave boy: I raised and held him on my breast, Sang him a song, and bade him rest. "Mother, Mother, sing low to me— I am sleepy now and I cannot see!" I kissed him and I could not weep, As he went to sleep, as he went to sleep.

As I lay asleep, as I lay asleep, With my girl and boy in my grave so deep, As I lay asleep, I awoke in fear, Awoke, but awoke not my children dear, And I heard a cry so low and weak From a tiny voice that could not speak; I heard the cry of a little one, My bairn that could neither talk nor run, My little, little one, uncaress'd, Starving for lack of the milk of the breast; And I rose from sleep and enter'd in, And found my little one, pinch'd and thin, And croon'd a song, and hush'd its moan, And put its lips to my white breast-bone; And the red, red moon that lit the place Went white to look at the little face, And I kiss'd and kiss'd and I could not weep, As it went to sleep, as it went to sleep.

As it lay asleep, as it lay asleep, I set it down in the darkness deep, Smooth'd its limbs and laid it out, And drew the curtains round about; Then into the dark, dark room I hied Where he lay awake at the woman's side, And though the chamber was black as night, He saw my face, for it was so white; I gazed in his eyes, and he shrieked in pain, And I knew he would never sleep again, And back to my grave went silently, And soon my baby was brought to me; My son and daughter beside me rest, My little baby is on my breast; Our bed is warm and our grave is deep, But he cannot sleep, he cannot sleep!