769.

But she neither turn'd her head
Nor 'Whistly, whistly,' said she.
Her hands were folded as in grace,
We laid her with her ancient race
And all the village wept.

Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam ;

Some in the reeds

Of the black mountain lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.

High on the hill-top

The old King sits;

He is now so old and gray

He's nigh lost his wits.

1824-1889

With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys

From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music
On cold starry nights
To sup with the Queen

Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.

They took her lightly back,

Between the night and morrow,
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there.
If any man so daring

As dig them up in spite,
He shall find their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men;

770.

771.

Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,

And white owl's feather!

GEORGE MAC DONALD

THEY

That Holy Thing

1824-1905

HEY all were looking for a king
To slay their foes and lift them high:
Thou cam'st, a little baby thing

That made a woman cry.

O Son of Man, to right my lot
Naught but Thy presence can avail;
Yet on the road Thy wheels are not,
Nor on the sea Thy sail!

My how or when Thou wilt not heed,

But come down Thine own secret stair,
That Thou mayst answer all my need—
Yea, every bygone prayer.

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI

The Blessed Damozel

HE blessèd Damozel lean'd out

THE

1828-1882

From the gold bar of Heaven :
Her blue grave eyes were deeper much

Than a deep water, even.

She had three lilies in her hand,

And the stars in her hair were seven.

With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys

From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music
On cold starry nights
To sup with the Queen

Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.

They took her lightly back,

Between the night and morrow,
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there.
If any man so daring

As dig them up in spite,
He shall find their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men;

770.

771.

Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,

And white owl's feather!

GEORGE MAC DONALD

That Holy Thing

HEY all were looking for a king

THEY

1824-1905

To slay their foes and lift them high:
Thou cam'st, a little baby thing

That made a woman cry.

O Son of Man, to right my lot
Naught but Thy presence can avail;
Yet on the road Thy wheels are not,
Nor on the sea Thy sail!

My how or when Thou wilt not heed,

But come down Thine own secret stair,
That Thou mayst answer all my need—
Yea, every bygone prayer.

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI

The Blessed Damozel

1828-1882

THE blessed Damozel lean'd out
From the gold bar of Heaven :
Her blue grave eyes were deeper much
Than a deep water, even.

She had three lilies in her hand,

And the stars in her hair were seven.