Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/45



Gather round me, little laddies,
 * And ye maidens small;

Listen to my voice and lyre;
 * Listen, children all.

With attention hear my ballad,
 * Till the tale be done;

Listen—’tis a wondrous story—
 * Till my song be done.

In a poor Bohemian village,
 * Not far from the way,

Even now you see an old well,
 * Honored till this day.

Deep within it lies a church bell,
 * Hid from mortal eyes;

Never more its voice shall ringing
 * Bid us praise the skies.

Only once in the far ages
 * Did they hear its voice,

When an old religious woman
 * Went there once by choice.

Dipping in its cold, clear bosom
 * Linen she had spun,

Half drew up the bell that lay there,
 * Hid from light and sun.

Filled with horror, she fell fainting
 * By the old well’s side,

And her weak hands left their holding,
 * And the bell did slide,