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, | |
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| When Wagoner John got out his team, | 5 |
| Smiler and Whitefoot, Duke and Gray, | |
| With the light in his eyes of a young man’s dream, | |
| As he thought of his wedding on New Year’s Day | |
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| 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. | |
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| “Thou’s surely not going!” shouted mine host; | |
| “Thou’ll be lost in the drift, as sure as thou’s born; | |
| Thy lass winnot want to wed wi’ a ghost, | 15 |
| And that’s what thou’ll be on Christmas morn. | |
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| “It’s 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 |
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| Turn the swallows flying south, | |
| Turn the vines against the sun, | |
| Herds from rivers in the drouth, | |
| Men must dare or nothing’s done. | |
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| 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, | |
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| And dreams he is walking by Washburn side, | |
| Walking with Ruth on a summer’s day, | |
| Singing that song to his bonnie bride, | 35 |
| His own wife now forever and aye. | |
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| 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. | |
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| “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. | |
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| “Nay, nay, they were wed!” the dalesman cried, | |
| “By Parson Carmalt o’ New Year’s Day; | |
| Bless ye! Ruth were me great-great grandsire’s bride, | 60 |
| And Maister Frankland gave her away.” | |
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| “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 |
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| “There’s 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 |
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