IT was Christmas Eve in the year fourteen, | |
And, as ancient dalesmen used to tell, | |
The wildest winter they ever had seen, | |
With the snow lying deep on moor and fell, | |
|
When Wagoner John got out his team, | 5 |
Smiler and Whitefoot, Duke and Gray, | |
With the light in his eyes of a young mans dream, | |
As he thought of his wedding on New Years Day | |
|
To Ruth, the maid with the bonnie brown hair, | |
And eyes of the deepest, sunniest blue, | 10 |
Modest and winsome, and wondrous fair, | |
And true to her troth, for her heart was true. | |
|
Thous surely not going! shouted mine host; | |
Thoull be lost in the drift, as sure as thous born; | |
Thy lass winnot want to wed wi a ghost, | 15 |
And thats what thoull be on Christmas morn. | |
|
Its eleven long miles from Skipton toon | |
To Blueberg hooses e Washburn dale: | |
Thou had better turn back and sit thee doon, | |
And comfort thy heart wi a drop o good ale. | 20 |
|
Turn the swallows flying south, | |
Turn the vines against the sun, | |
Herds from rivers in the drouth, | |
Men must dare or nothings done. | |
|
So what cares the lover for storm or drift, | 25 |
Or peril of death on the haggard way? | |
He sings to himself like a lark in the lift, | |
And the joy in his heart turns December to May. | |
|
But the wind from the north brings a deadly chill | |
Creeping into his heart, and the drifts are deep, | 30 |
Where the thick of the storm strikes Blueberg hill. | |
He is weary and falls in a pleasant sleep, | |
|
And dreams he is walking by Washburn side, | |
Walking with Ruth on a summers day, | |
Singing that song to his bonnie bride, | 35 |
His own wife now forever and aye. | |
|
Now rend me this riddle, how Ruth should hear | |
That song of a heart in the clutch of doom | |
Steal on her ear, distinct and clear | |
As if her lover was in the room. | 40 |
|
And read me this riddle, how Ruth should know, | |
As she bounds to throw open the heavy door, | |
That her lover was lost in the drifting snow, | |
Dying or dead, on the great wild moor. | |
|
Help! help! Lost! lost! | 45 |
Rings through the night as she rushes away, | |
Stumbling, blinded and tempest-tossed, | |
Straight to the drift where her lover lay. | |
|
And swift they leap after her into the night, | |
Into the drifts by Blueberg hill, | 50 |
Ridsdale and Robinson, each with a light, | |
To find her there holding him white and still. | |
|
He was dead in the drift, then, | |
I hear them say, | |
As I listen in wonder, | 55 |
Forgetting to play, | |
Fifty years syne come Christmas Day. | |
|
Nay, nay, they were wed! the dalesman cried, | |
By Parson Carmalt o New Years Day; | |
Bless ye! Ruth were me great-great grandsires bride, | 60 |
And Maister Frankland gave her away. | |
|
But how did she find him under the snow? | |
They cried with a laughter touched with tears. | |
Nay, lads, he said softly, we never can know | |
No, not if we live a hundred years. | 65 |
|
Theres a sight o things gan | |
To the making o man. | |
Then I rushed to my play | |
With a whoop and away, | |
Fifty years syne come Christmas Day. | 70 |
|