The witch from over the water,

The fay from over the foam,

The bride that rode thro' Edinbro' town
With satin shoes and a silken gown,

A queen, and a great king's daughter,-
Thus they carried her home,

With torches and with scutcheons,

Unhonoured and unseen,

With the lilies of France in the wind a-stir,
And the Lion of Scotland over her,

Darkly, in the dead of night,

They carried the Queen, the Queen!!

The sexton paused and took a draught of ale.
""'Twas there," he said, "I joined 'em at the gate,
My uncle and the pedlar. What they sang,
The little shadowy throng of men that walked
Behind the scutcheoned coach with bare bent heads
I know not; but 'twas very soft and low.
They walked behind the rest, like shadows flung
Behind the torch-light, from that strange dark hearse.
And, some said, afterwards, they were the ghosts
Of lovers that this queen had brought to death.
A foolish thought it seemed to me, and yet
Like the night-wind they sang. And there was one
An olive-coloured man,-the pedlar said
Was like a certain foreigner that she loved,
One Chastelard, a wild French poet of hers.
Also the pedlar thought they sang 'farewell'
In words like this, and that the words in French
Were written by the hapless Queen herself,
When as a girl she left the vines of France
For Scotland and the halls of Holyrood:-

I.

Though thy hands have plied their trade
Eighty years without a rest,

Robin Scarlet, never thy spade

Built a house for such a guest!

Carry her where, in earliest June,
All the whitest hawthorns blow;
Carry her under the midnight moon,
Singing very soft and low.

Slow between the low green larches, carry the lovely lady sleeping,
Past the low white moon-lit farms, along the lilac-shadowed way!
Carry her through the summer darkness, weeping, weeping, weeping,

weeping!

Answering only, to any that ask you, whence ye carry her,Fotheringhay!

VOL. CXCII.-NO. MCLXI.

H

II.

She was gayer than a child!
-Let your torches droop for sorrow.-
Laughter in her eyes ran wild!
-Carry her down to Peterboro'.—
Words were kisses in her mouth!
-Let no word of blame be spoken.—
She was Queen of all the South!

-In the North, her heart was broken.

They should have left her in her vineyards, left her heart to her land's own keeping,

Left her white breast room to breathe, and left her light foot free to dance.

Out of the cold grey Northern mists, we carry her weeping, weeping, weeping,

O, ma patrie,
La plus chérie,

Adieu, plaisant pays de France!

Music built the towers of Troy, but thy gray walls are built of sorrow! Wind-swept hills, and sorrowful glens, of thrifty sowing and iron reaping,

What if her foot were fair as a sunbeam, how should it touch or melt your snows?

What if her hair were a silken mesh?
Hands of steel can deal hard blows,

Iron breast-plates bruise fair flesh!
Carry her southward, palled in purple,
Weeping, weeping, weeping, weeping,

What had their rocks to do with roses? Body and soul she was

all one rose ?

Thus, through the summer night, slowly they went,
We three behind, the pedlar-poet and I,

And Robin Scarlet. The moving flare that ringed
The escutcheoned hearse, lit every leaf distinct
Along the hedges and woke the sleeping birds,
But drew no watchers from the drowsier farms.
Thus, through a world of innocence and sleep,
We brought her to the doors of her last home,
In Peterborough Cathedral. Round her tomb
They stood, in the huge gloom of those old aisles,

The heralds with their torches, but their light
Struggled in vain with that tremendous dark.
Their ring of smoky red could only show
A few sad faces round the purple pall,
The wings of a stone angel overhead,
The base of three great pillars, and, fitfully,
Faint as the phosphorus glowing in some old vault,
One little slab of marble, far away.

Yet, or the darkness, or the pedlar's words
Had made me fanciful, I thought I saw

Bowed shadows praying in those unplumbed aisles,
Nay, dimly heard them weeping, in a grief
That still was built of silence, like the drip
Of water from a frozen fountain-head.

We laid her in her grave. We closed the tomb.
With echoing footsteps all the funeral went;
And I went last to close and lock the doors;
Last, and half frightened of the enormous gloom
That rolled along behind me as one by one
The torches vanished. O, I was glad to see
The moon-light on the kind turf-mounds again.
But, as I turned the key, a quivering hand
Was laid upon my arm. I turned and saw
That foreigner with the olive-coloured face.

From head to foot he shivered, as with cold.
He drew me into the shadow of the porch.

'Come back with me,' he whispered, and slid his hand
-Like ice it was-along my wrist, and slipped
A ring upon my finger, muttering quick,

As in a burning fever, 'All the wealth
Of Eldorado for one hour! Come back!
I must go back and see her face again!

I was not there, not there, the day she died.
You'll help me with the coffin.

Not a soul

Will know. Come back! One moment, only one!'

I thought the man was mad, and plucked my hand Away from him. He caught me by the sleeve, And sank upon his knees, lifting his face

Most piteously to mine. One moment! See!

I loved her!"

I saw the moonlight glisten on his tears,

Great, long, slow tears they were; and then-my GodAs his face lifted and his head sank back

Beseeching me-I saw a crimson thread

Circling his throat, as though the headsman's axe
Had cloven it with one blow, so shrewd, so keen,

The head had slipped not from the trunk.

I gasped;

And, as he pleaded, stretching his head back,
The wound, O like a second awful mouth,
The wound began to gape.

I tore my cloak
Out of his clutch. My keys fell with a clash.
I left them where they lay, and with a shout
I dashed into the broad white empty road.
There was no soul in sight. Sweating with fear
I hastened home, not daring to look back;
But as I turned the corner, I heard the clang
Of those great doors, and knew he had entered in.

Not till I saw before me in the lane

The pedlar and my uncle did I halt

And look at that which clasped my finger still
As with a band of ice.

My hand was bare!
I stared at it and rubbed it. Then I thought
I had been dreaming. There had been no ring!
The poor man I had left there in the porch,
Being a Frenchman, talked a little wild;
But only wished to look upon her grave.
And I-I was the madman! So I said
Nothing. But all the same, for all my thoughts,
I'd not go back that night to find the keys,
No, not for all the rubies in the crown

Of Prester John."

(To be continued.)

SNATTY.

BY JEFFERY E. JEFFERY.

"This 'appened in a battle to a batt'ry of the corps Which is first among the women an' amazin' first in war.' -KIPLING.