Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/46

 With a terrible resounding,
 * That shook hill and dale,

Back into the old well’s darkness,
 * While its voice did wail:

John, John, sacrificed John.”

With a dark scowl on his forehead,
 * Homeward rides the Checkish lord.

By his side, the staghounds leading,
 * Follows John, page to my lord.

Like a thundercloud his forehead,
 * And his eyes with anger burn;

For his dearest dog is missing,
 * And he knows not where to turn.

Three whole days they have been searching
 * Wood, and field, and everywhere.

Useless is their toil and seeking,
 * And their looking everywhere.

Sadly, with their faces troubled,
 * Back they turn them to their home,

While their lord with bosom swelling,
 * Sighs, “My dog, where do you roam?”

On the road there stands a granny,
 * Leaning on her crutches two.

See! her head is like an owl’s head,
 * And she has but one eye, too;

Humpbacked, all her face a wrinkle—
 * And her hands but skin and bone;

Voice—why like a rook in cawing
 * Is the harsh and gutteral tone.

Stop your charger! Stop your people!
 * Listen to my words, I say.

Wherefore do you search the forests
 * And the meadows all the day?

I can tell you of your staghound,
 * Of the fleet one that you love,

But I must be paid to do it;
 * I am seeking gain—not love.