Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/50

 42 For an earnest message has gone from the priest, And the young lord has risen in haste from a feast.

He has flung down the cup on the wine-stain'd table, And roars for his horse to be brougth from the stable;

He sways in the saddle with drunken glee, And they drink the stirrup-cup lustily,

And speed his way with their tipsy breath— "He will ride," say they, "to be in at the death."

In the halls of Derg there is silence and gloom— The old lord lies stiff in the great Blue Room.

By the side of the body for half the day Have hover'd two women like birds of prey—

Two snickering crones, who for years have made This ghastly office their living and trade;

They have streak'd and and straighten'd each knotted limb. He is dead—and they are not afraid of him;

They have closed with copper each staring eye That had looked for gold so greedily.

Now, one at the head and one at the feet, They wrap the poor corpse in its winding-sheet;

And one at and one at the head, They lift the old man from the great Blue Bed.

In the long elm coffin they've laid him straight, And snuffle and vow that it waxeth late;

They open the casement, the wind is loud, And ruffles the plaits of the dead man's shroud.

But their task is over—the women are gon, And the "dust and ashes" are left alone.

The autumn wind is rising fast, The sky is lurid and overcast,

And twilight is deepening into night, As clouds overshadow the last red-light,

And a gust of storm comes loud and shrill, And Something alights on the window-sill—

A bird of prey, all black and grim, And it bends its head and it looks at Him!

It flaps its wings with a goblin croak, So low it would seem 'twas the dead man spoke,

And then, by its horrible instinct led, It perches itself on the coffin-head!

Ah! the cruel beak has plunged full deep In the sockets where, later, the worms will creep.

Eyes and nose and cheeks are bare, And the carrion-crow is still feasting there—

Gorging and feasting, fast and full, Till its wings droop down and its eyes grow dull,

And the long black bill is steeped in red, And smeared with the spoil of the freshly dead.

Instead of those features grim is seen A bloody patch—where the face has been!

And heavy and dull, in the tainted air, The foul black devil is sleeping there.

Hark! hark! 'tis the rattle of hoofs beneath, And voices resound in the house of death;

Torches are gleaming about the hall, And steps are heard on the stairs to fall.

With the fumes of the liquor still in his head, The young lord enters the room of the dead.

What horror arose at the fearful sight— Some fainted, some fled, and some pray'd from fright;

And some did shriek and wail full loud For the mangled corpse in its bloody shroud.

But the young lord looked with a tipsy eye, Then scared them all with a sudden cry—

"A crow! a crow! by this liquorish bird My fine old father has kept his word.

"To his word, ye can see, he did true remain, For he swore I should ne'er see his face again!"