Page:The poems of George Eliot (Crowell, 1884).djvu/347

 Rh Not one but counted service done by her,

Asking no pay save just her daily bread.

At feasts and weddings, when they passed in groups

Along the vale, and the good country wine,

Being vocal in them, made them quire along

In quaintly mingled mirth and piety,

They fain must jest and play some friendly trick

On three old maids; but when the moment came

Always they bated breath and made their sport

Gentle as feather-stroke, that Agatha

Might like the waking for the love it showed.

Their song made happy music 'mid the hills,

For nature tuned their race to harmony,

And poet Hans, the tailor, wrote them songs

That grew from out their life, as crocuses

From out the meadow's moistness. 'T was his song

They oft sang, wending homeward from a feast—

The song I give you. It brings in, you see.

Their gentle jesting with the three old maids.

Midnight by the chapel bell!

Homeward, homeward all, farewell!

I with you, and you with me,

Miles are short with company.

Heart of Mary, bless the way,

Keep us all by night and day!

Moon and stars at feast with night

Now have drunk their fill of light.

Home they hurry, making time

Trot apace, like merry rhyme.

Heart of Mary, mystic rose,

Send us all a sweet repose!