Songs of the Ridings Part 8

O! Swawdills good...

By ivery beck an abbey sleeps, An' t' ullet is t' owd prior.

A jackdaw thruf each windey peeps, An' bigs his nest i' t' choir.

In ivery dale a castle stands-- Sing, Clifford, Percy, Scrope!-- They threaped amang theirsels for t' lands, But fowt for t' King or t' Pope.

O! Swawdill's good...

O! Eastward ho! is t' song o' t' gales, As they sweep ower fell an' lea; And Eastward ho! is t' song o' t' dales, That winnd frae t' moors to t' sea.

Coom winter frost, coom summer druft, Their watters munnot bide; An' t' rain that's fall'n when bould winds soughed Sal iver seawards glide.

O! Swawdill' s good...

1. Hum.2 Leap and dart away.

Fieldfares

Fieldfares, bonny fieldfares, feedin' 'mang the bent, Wheer the sun is s.h.i.+nin' through yon cloud's wide rent, Welcoom back to t' moorlands, Frae Norway's fells an' sh.o.r.elands, Welcoom back to Whardill,(1) now October's ommost spent.

Noisy, chackin' fieldfares, weel I ken your cry, When i' flocks you're sweepin' ower the hills sae high: Oft on trees you gethers, Preenin' out your feathers, An' I'm fain to see your coats as blue as t' summer sky.

Curlews, larks an' tewits,(2) all have gone frae t' moors, Frost has nipped i' t' garden all my bonny floors; Roses, lilies, pansies, Stocks an' yallow tansies Fade away, an' soon the leaves 'll clutter(3) doon i'shoors.

Here i' bed I'm liggin', liggin' day by day Hay-cart whemmled ower,(4) and underneath I lay; I was n.o.bbut seven, Soon I'll be eleven; Fower times have I seen you fieldfares coom an' flee away.

You'll be gone when t' swallow bigs his nest o' loam, April winds 'll blaw you far ower t' saut sea foam; You'll not wait while May-time, Summer dews an' hay-time; Lang afore our gerse is mawn your mates 'll call you home.

Fieldfares, liltin'(5) fieldfares, you'll noan sing to me.

Why sud you bide silent while you've crossed the sea?

Are you brokken-hearted, Sin frae home you've parted, Leavin' far frae Yorks.h.i.+re moors your nests i' t' tall fir tree?

Storm-c.o.c.k sings at new-yeer, swingin' on yon esh, Sings his loudest song when t' winds do beat an' lesh; Robins, throstles follow, An' when cooms the swalloww, All the birds 'll chirm to see our woodlands green an' nesh.

Fieldfares, bonny fieldfares, I'll be gone 'fore you; I'm sae weak an' dowly, hands are thin an' blue.

Pain is growin' stranger, As the neets get langer.

Will you miss my face at whiles, when t' owd yeer's changed to t' new?

1. Wharfdale 2. Peewits 3.Huddle 4. Upset 5. Light-hearted

THE FLOWER OF WENSLEYDALE

She leaned o'er her latticed cas.e.m.e.nt, The Flower of Wensleydale; 'Twas St Agnes Eve at midnight, Through the mist the stars burnt pale.

In her hand she held twelve sage-leaves, Plucked in her garden at noon; And over them she had whispered thrice The spell of a mystic rune.

For many had come a-wooing The maid with the sloe-blue eyes; Fain would she learn of St Agnes To whom should fall the prize.

They said she must drop a sage-leaf At each stroke of the midnight hour; Then should the knight of her father's choice Obey the summons of her voice, And appear 'neath her oriel'd bowwer.

To the holy virgin-martyr She lifted her hands in prayer; Then she watched the rooks that perched asleep In the chestnut branches bare.

At last on the frosty silence There rang out the midnight chime; And the hills gave back in echoes The knell of the dying time.

She held her breath as she counted The beats of the chapel bell; At every stroke of the hammer A sage-leaf fluttered and fell, Slowly fluttered and fell.

Her heart stood still a moment, As the last leaf touched the ground; And her hand went swift to her maiden breast, For she heard a far-off sound;

'Twas the sound of a horseman spurring His steed through the woodland glade; And ever the sound drew nearer, And the footfalls echoed clearer, Till before her bower they stayed.

She strained her eyes to discover, By the light of a ghostly moon, Who was the knight had heard and obeyed The hest of the mystic rune.

But naught could she see from her cas.e.m.e.nt, Save a man on a coal-black steed; For his mantle was m.u.f.fled about him, His blazon she could not read.

She crossed herself and she whispered-- Her voice was faint but clear-- "Oh! Who art thou that darest ride, Through the aspen glade, by the river's side, My chamber window near?

"Say, art thou the lord of Bainbridge, Or Gervase of Bolton Hall, That comest so late on St Agnes Eve Within my manor wall?"

"I am not the lord of Bainbridge, Nor Gervase of Bolton Hall, But I marked the light in thy cas.e.m.e.nt, And I saw the sage-leaves fall, Flutter awhile and fall."

"Camest thou over the moorlands, Or camest thou through the dale?

Speak no guile to a witless maid, But tell me a soothfast tale."

"I came not over the moorlands, Nor along the dale did ride; But thou seeest thy plighted lover, That has come to claim his bride."

"Say, art thou knight or yeoman, Of n.o.ble or simple birth?

Fain would I know thy lineage, Thy prowess and thy worth."

"Nor knight nor lowly yeoman, But a mighty king am I; Bold va.s.sals do my bidding, And on mine errands hie.

"They come to court and castle, They climb the palace stairs; Nor pope nor king may entrance bar To him my livery wears."

"But why should a king so mighty Pay court to a simple maid?

My father's a knight of low degree, No princely realm he holds in fee, No proud-foot damsels wait on me: Thy steps have surely strayed."

"No step of mine hath wandered From the goal of my desires; 'Tis on thee my hopes are centred, 'Tis to thee my heart aspires.

"I love thee for thy beauty, I love thee for thy grace, I love thee for the dancing lights That gleam in thy moon-lit face: And these I deem a peerless dower To win a king's embrace."

"One boon, O royal lover, I ask on St Agnes Day; I fain would gaze on thy visage fair Ere with thee I steal away.