Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs By Walter Thornbury. Illustrated by J. Whistler, F. Walker, John Tenniel, J. D. Watson, W. Small, F. Sandys, G. J. Pinwell, T. Morten, M. J. Lawless, and many others |
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The Black Coach.
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 | Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs |  |
235
The Black Coach.
AN OLD NORTHAMPTONSHIRE LEGEND.
The roofless house at Ringwood Hall
Stands mournful in the sun;
The porch is there, the door is gone,
The roses trail and run
Around the mossy window shaft—
Once fashioned with such art and craft.
Stands mournful in the sun;
The porch is there, the door is gone,
The roses trail and run
Around the mossy window shaft—
Once fashioned with such art and craft.
The Delameres have long died out;
The avenue grows wild;
The walks are dank with last year's leaves:
Only the keeper's child
Plays in the mournful banquet-room,
Laughing amid the echoing gloom.
The avenue grows wild;
The walks are dank with last year's leaves:
Only the keeper's child
Plays in the mournful banquet-room,
Laughing amid the echoing gloom.
The old race dwindled age by age
Till avarice crept in,
Then drunkenness and leering lust,
And homicide and sin.
At last foul Murder came, and set
His red foot on their coronet.
Till avarice crept in,
Then drunkenness and leering lust,
And homicide and sin.
At last foul Murder came, and set
His red foot on their coronet.
The chapel, see how bare and lone!
Its rich west window gone—
The saints, the martyrs, and the kings,
That once the sun shone on;
And but one lonely knight to pray
For all his old race passed away.
Its rich west window gone—
The saints, the martyrs, and the kings,
That once the sun shone on;
And but one lonely knight to pray
For all his old race passed away.
The stone urns on the pedestals
Are green with velvet moss;
The shield above the green park gate
Was long since rent across;
The scutcheon's choked with gathered dust,
Upon the blazon there is rust.
Are green with velvet moss;
The shield above the green park gate
Was long since rent across;
The scutcheon's choked with gathered dust,
Upon the blazon there is rust.
On the damp drive the mushrooms bulb,
Where rabbits trot and amble,
The blackbird flits his jetty wings,
And fawns love there to gambol.
Only the yew-tree seems to thrive:
The stunted thorns are scarce alive.
Where rabbits trot and amble,
The blackbird flits his jetty wings,
And fawns love there to gambol.
Only the yew-tree seems to thrive:
The stunted thorns are scarce alive.
The lutes and garlands on the porch,
The orange lichens blurr;
The dial, see, is half defaced
By many a mossy slur;
The motto ivy tendrils shroud—
“Man's life is but a morning cloud.”
The orange lichens blurr;
The dial, see, is half defaced
By many a mossy slur;
The motto ivy tendrils shroud—
“Man's life is but a morning cloud.”
The windows are but skeletons;
And through their stony bars
You see at night the glittering
Of the cold Autumn stars.
Upon the roof the long weeds grow,
And Death's decay and ruin show.
And through their stony bars
You see at night the glittering
Of the cold Autumn stars.
Upon the roof the long weeds grow,
And Death's decay and ruin show.
When Spring comes dancing o'er the lea,
And blossoms every sod;
When birds, in gratitude and joy,
Rise, singing hymns to God;
You would not think that Sin had been,
And poisoned all that house within.
And blossoms every sod;
When birds, in gratitude and joy,
Rise, singing hymns to God;
You would not think that Sin had been,
And poisoned all that house within.
When Summer ripples move the lake,
And swans are sailing ermine white,
In beauty proud and self content,
And woods are filled with emerald light,—
You would not think that spotted Sin
Had feasted there her kith and kin.
And swans are sailing ermine white,
In beauty proud and self content,
And woods are filled with emerald light,—
You would not think that spotted Sin
Had feasted there her kith and kin.
Nor when the beeches, orange-brown,
Glow by the water-side,
When kingly Autumn dons his crown,
In all his royal pride,—
You would not think, at such a time,
That there had once dwelt sin and crime.
Glow by the water-side,
When kingly Autumn dons his crown,
In all his royal pride,—
You would not think, at such a time,
That there had once dwelt sin and crime.
But when the dead leaves' fluttering gold
Fill the October skies,
And when the wild ducks screaming shout,
And echoes give replies,—
You then might feel some ghostly trace
Of the sad influence of the place.
Fill the October skies,
236
And echoes give replies,—
You then might feel some ghostly trace
Of the sad influence of the place.
And in the rainy Autumn nights,
When winds are sobbing loud,
When dogs moan from the outer court,
And black grows every cloud—
Ghost-lights gleam up the avenue,
Lights answer from the windows too.
When winds are sobbing loud,
When dogs moan from the outer court,
And black grows every cloud—
Ghost-lights gleam up the avenue,
Lights answer from the windows too.
Dark figures, each one with a torch,
Come slowly down the scaur,
Chanting a low deep funeral hymn—
Answered by echoes far;
And all the while the turret bell
Tolls with a long and doleful knell.
Come slowly down the scaur,
Chanting a low deep funeral hymn—
Answered by echoes far;
And all the while the turret bell
Tolls with a long and doleful knell.
And last, about the midnight hour,
A jet black funeral coach
Comes rolling up the long black drive,
And up the grand approach;
Stops at the doorless porch, they say,
Then slowly vanishes away!
A jet black funeral coach
Comes rolling up the long black drive,
And up the grand approach;
Stops at the doorless porch, they say,
Then slowly vanishes away!
Some think it is the wicked lord,
Who, seventy summers gone,
On such a night brought home his bride—
Her bridal splendour on;
And, wrathful at her wild regret,
E'en in the bridal bed,
At daybreak snatched his sword, and smote
The sleeping maiden dead!
Who, seventy summers gone,
On such a night brought home his bride—
Her bridal splendour on;
And, wrathful at her wild regret,
E'en in the bridal bed,
At daybreak snatched his sword, and smote
The sleeping maiden dead!
Yes; as the sexton, one by one,
Puts out the funeral lamps,
Leaving the corpse alone and still,
Amid the charnel damps;
So, one by one, Time does erase
The glories of man's pomp and place.
Puts out the funeral lamps,
Leaving the corpse alone and still,
Amid the charnel damps;
So, one by one, Time does erase
The glories of man's pomp and place.
| Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs | |