Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By RobertCollyer506 Under the Snow
I
And, as ancient dalesmen used to tell,
The wildest winter they ever had seen,
With the snow lying deep on moor and fell,
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
And eyes of the deepest, sunniest blue,
Modest and winsome, and wondrous fair,
And true to her troth, for her heart was true.
“Thou ’ll be lost in the drift, as sure as thou ’s born;
Thy lass winnot want to wed wi’ a ghost,
And that ’s what thou ’ll be on Christmas morn.
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.”
Turn the vines against the sun,
Herds from rivers in the drouth,
Men must dare or nothing ’s done.
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.
Creeping into his heart, and the drifts are deep,
Where the thick of the storm strikes Blueberg hill.
He is weary and falls in a pleasant sleep,
Walking with Ruth on a summer’s day,
Singing that song to his bonnie bride,
His own wife now forever and aye.
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.
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.
Rings through the night as she rushes away,
Stumbling, blinded and tempest-tossed,
Straight to the drift where her lover lay.
Into the drifts by Blueberg hill,
Ridsdale and Robinson, each with a light,
To find her there holding him white and still.
I hear them say,
As I listen in wonder,
Forgetting to play,
Fifty years syne come Christmas Day.
“By Parson Carmalt o’ New Year’s Day;
Bless ye! Ruth were me great-great grandsire’s bride,
And Maister Frankland gave her away.”
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.
To the making o’ man.”
Then I rushed to my play
With a whoop and away,
Fifty years syne come Christmas Day.