Page:Traditional Tales of the English and Scottish Peasantry - 1887.djvu/20

16

The wind is cold, the snow falls fast,

The night is dark and late,

As I lift aloud my voice and cry

By the oppressor's gate.

There is a voice in every hill,

A tongue in every stone;

The greenwood sings a song of joy,

Since thou art dead and gone;

A poet's voice is in each mouth,

And songs of triumph swell,

Glad songs that tell the gladsome earth

The downfall of Dalzell.

As I raised up my voice to sing

I heard the green earth say,

Sweet am I now to beast and bird,

Since thou art passed away:

I hear no more the battle-shout,

The martyrs' dying moans;

My cottages and cities sing

From their foundation-stones;

The carbine and the culverin's mute—

The deathshot and the yell

Are turned into a hymn of joy,

For thy downfall, Dalzell.

I've trod thy banner in the dust,

And caused the raven call

From thy bride-chamber to the owl

Hatched on thy castle wall;

I've made thy minstrels' music dumb,

And silent now to fame

Art thou, save when the orphan casts

His curses on thy name.

Now thou mayst say to good men's prayers

A long and last farewell:

There's hope for every sin save thine—

Adieu, adieu, Dalzell!

The grim pit opes for thee her gates,

Where punished spirits wail,

And ghastly death throws wide her door,

And hails thee with a Hail!

Deep from the grave there comes a voice,

A voice with hollow tones,

Such as a spirit's tongue would have

That spoke through hollow bones:

"Arise, ye martyred men, and shout

From earth to howling hell;

He comes, the persecutor comes!

All hail to thee, Dalzell!"