dots-menu
×

Home  »  The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse  »  Robert Buchanan (1841–1901)

Arthur Quiller-Couch, comp. The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse. 1922.

The Faëry Reaper

Robert Buchanan (1841–1901)

’TIS on Eilanowen,

There ’s laughter nightly!

For the Fays are sowing

Their golden grain:

It springs by moonlight

So stilly and brightly,

And it drinks no sunlight,

Or silver rain;—

Tho’ the shoots upcreeping

No man may see,

When men are reaping

It reapt must be;

But to reap it rightly,

With sickle keen,

They must lead there nightly

A pure colleen!

Yes, pure completely

Must be that maiden.

Just feeling sweetly

Her love’s first dream.

Should one steal thither

With evil laden,

The crop would wither

In the pale moon’s beam!

For midnights seven,

While all men sleep,

’Neath the silent heaven

The maid must reap;

And the sweeter and whiter

Of soul is she,

The better and brighter

Will that harvest be!

… In Lough Bawn’s bosom

The isle is lying,

Like a bright green blossom

On a maiden’s breast—

There the water-eagle

O’erhead is flying,

And beneath the sea-gull

Doth build its nest.

And across the water

A farm gleams fair,

And the farmer’s daughter

Dwelt lonely there:—

And on Eilanowen

She’d sit and sing,

When the Fays were sowing

Their seeds in spring,

She could not hear them,

Nor see them peeping;

Tho’ she wander’d near them

The spring-tide thro’,

When the grouse was crowing,

The trout was leaping,

And with hare-bells blowing

The banks were blue.

But not by moonlight

She dared to stay,

Only by sunlight

She went that way.

And on Eilanowen

They walk’d each night,

Her footprints sowing

With lilies white!

When the sun above her

Was brightly blazing,

She’d bare (God love her!)

Each round white limb.

Unseen, unnoted,

Save fay-folk gazing,

Dark hair’d, white throated,

She’d strip to swim!

Out yonder blushing

A space she’d stand,

Then falter flushing

Across the strand,—

Till the bright still water

Would sparkle sweet,

As it kiss’d and caught her

From neck to feet!

There, sparkling round her

With fond caresses,

It clasp’d her, crown’d her,

My maiden fair!

Then, brighter glowing

From its crystal kisses,

The bright drops flowing

From her dripping hair,

Outleaping, running

Beneath the sky,

The bright light sunning

Her limbs, she’d fly,—

And ’mid tinkling laughter

Of elfin bowers,

The Fays ran after

With leaves and flowers!

Could the Fays behold her,

Nor long to gain her?

From foot to shoulder

None pure as she!

They cried ‘God keep her,

No sorrow stain her!

The Faëry Reaper

In troth she’ll be!’…

With stalks of amber

And silvern ears,

From earth’s dark chamber

The grain appears.

’Tis harvest weather!

The moon swims high:

And they flock together

With elfin cry!

Now long and truly

I’d loved that maiden;

And served her duly

With kiss and sign;

And that same season

My soul love-laden

Had found new reason

To wish her mine.

For her cheek grew paler,

Her laughter less,

And what might ail her

I could not guess.

Each harvest morrow

We kissing met,

And with weary sorrow

Her eyes seem’d wet.

‘Oh, speak, Mavourneen,

What ails ye nightly?

For sure each morning

’Tis sad ye seem!’

Her eyes not weeping

Looked on me brightly:—

‘Each night when sleeping

I dream a Dream.

’Tis on Eilanowen

I seem to be,

And bright grain growing

I surely see;

A golden sickle

My fingers keep,

And my slow tears trickle

On what I reap!

‘The moon is gleaming,

The faëries gather,

Like glow-worms gleaming,

Their eyes flash quick;

I try while reaping

To name ‘Our Father!’

But round me leaping

They pinch and prick—

On the stalks of amber,

On the silvern ears,

They cling, they clamber,

Till day appears!

And here I’m waking

In bed, once more,

My bones all aching,

My heart full sore!’

I kiss’d her, crying

‘God bless your reaping!

For sure no sighing

Can set you free.

They’ll bless your wedding

Who vex your sleeping;

So do their bidding,

Ma cushla chree!

But O, remember!

Your fate is cast,

And ere December

Hath fairly past,

The Faëry Reaper

Must be a Bride,

Or a sad cold sleeper

On the green hill-side!

‘Sure wedding ’s better

Than dying sadly!’

She smiled, and set her

Soft hand in mine.

For three nights after

She labour’d gladly,

’Mid fairy laughter,

And did not pine;

And when the seven

Long nights were run,

Full well ’neath Heaven

That work was done:

Their sheaves were slanted,

Their harvest made,

And no more they wanted

A mortal’s aid.

’Tis on Eilanowen

There ’s laughter nightly,

When the Fays are sowing

Their golden grain!

God bless that laughter

That grain blow brightly!

For luck came after

My Mary’s pain.

And when sweet Mary

Was wed to me,

Sure the folk of faëry

Were there to see:—

The white board spreading,

Unheard, unseen,

They blest the wedding

Of a pure colleen!