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13
HULLALOO
The eves were as grey as grey embers,
The leaves dirty yellow and sere,—
They were yellow, but dusky and sere;
That eve was the worst of November's,—
And they are the worst of the year.
'Twas an eve that one surely remembers,
Being out in the dusk with my dear:
For the fire was gone out to weak embers;
So I went out too, with my dear.
The leaves dirty yellow and sere,—
They were yellow, but dusky and sere;
That eve was the worst of November's,—
And they are the worst of the year.
'Twas an eve that one surely remembers,
Being out in the dusk with my dear:
For the fire was gone out to weak embers;
So I went out too, with my dear.
Hear then!—Through an alley Satanic
Of hemlock, I roam'd with my love,—
Of hemlock with Sarah, my love.
O my passion was quite oceanic,
With waves like the wind in a grove,
When the wind maketh waves in a grove
And the leaves with a sort of a panic
Seem taken; I thought of the stove
And, shivering, as if with a panic
Was taken, at thought of the stove.
Of hemlock, I roam'd with my love,—
Of hemlock with Sarah, my love.
O my passion was quite oceanic,
With waves like the wind in a grove,
When the wind maketh waves in a grove
And the leaves with a sort of a panic
Seem taken; I thought of the stove
And, shivering, as if with a panic
Was taken, at thought of the stove.
Our talk at the first had been jolly,
But our words soon were slow as our walk,—
Our young memories scarcely could walk;
Then we thought it was right melancholy
To be out in the dark without talk—
For we knew that we came out to talk;
Still we felt in our hearts it was folly
The vast dream of silence to baulk,
Till, whispering at last, I said—Golly!
And Sarah back whisper'd me—Lawk!
But our words soon were slow as our walk,—
Our young memories scarcely could walk;
Then we thought it was right melancholy
To be out in the dark without talk—
For we knew that we came out to talk;
Still we felt in our hearts it was folly
The vast dream of silence to baulk,
Till, whispering at last, I said—Golly!
And Sarah back whisper'd me—Lawk!
14
And now as the night was senescent,
And some roosters were hinting of morn,—
Foolish roosters then hinting of morn!—
As the night grew more old and unpleasant,
We saw in the distance a horn
Out of which a miraculous crescent
To the sides of the road was outborne;
'Twas Sal's father's horn lanthorn there present,
The crescent distinct from the horn.
And some roosters were hinting of morn,—
Foolish roosters then hinting of morn!—
As the night grew more old and unpleasant,
We saw in the distance a horn
Out of which a miraculous crescent
To the sides of the road was outborne;
'Twas Sal's father's horn lanthorn there present,
The crescent distinct from the horn.
And I said—He is better than Dian;
But I wish that his light had more size,—
And the light wasn't much for its size;
He has guess'd—that's a thing to rely on—
Has father, the way our walk lies,
And he has come out like Orion,
The fellow up there in the skies,—
Yes, Sally! those stars in the skies,—
Come out like another Orion
To help me take care of my prize,
To take her safe home bye and bye on
The pathway that fatherward lies.
But I wish that his light had more size,—
And the light wasn't much for its size;
He has guess'd—that's a thing to rely on—
Has father, the way our walk lies,
And he has come out like Orion,
The fellow up there in the skies,—
Yes, Sally! those stars in the skies,—
Come out like another Orion
To help me take care of my prize,
To take her safe home bye and bye on
The pathway that fatherward lies.
But Sarah, uplifting her finger,
Said—Surely that light I mistrust,—
That lanthorn I strangely mistrust;
O hasten! O let us not linger!
O fly! let us fly! for we must.
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Voice,—O he'll make such a dust!
In anguish she sobb'd, letting sink her
Sweet voice, as if fearing a bust,—
O but father'll kick up such a dust!
Said—Surely that light I mistrust,—
That lanthorn I strangely mistrust;
O hasten! O let us not linger!
O fly! let us fly! for we must.
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Voice,—O he'll make such a dust!
In anguish she sobb'd, letting sink her
Sweet voice, as if fearing a bust,—
O but father'll kick up such a dust!
15
I replied—this is nothing but dreaming;
We need but keep out of the light,—
But he kept dodging us with the light;
And Sarah would soon have been screaming,—
She shook like a leaf with affright,
Like a leaf, or a bird in a fright;
So I lifted her out of the gleaming
Through a gap in the hedge, out of sight:
And her father went on, never deeming
He left us behind in the night.
We need but keep out of the light,—
But he kept dodging us with the light;
And Sarah would soon have been screaming,—
She shook like a leaf with affright,
Like a leaf, or a bird in a fright;
So I lifted her out of the gleaming
Through a gap in the hedge, out of sight:
And her father went on, never deeming
He left us behind in the night.
Then to pacify Sarah I kiss'd her,
And soon took her out of the gloom,—
It was getting quite cold in the gloom,
And she cried; but I said—Dear! desist or
I never shall get you safe home.
Then we ran and in good time got home.
Father said—How on airth have I miss'd her?
She said—I was never from home.
No, Pa! I was never from home.
I have been all the night in my room.
And soon took her out of the gloom,—
It was getting quite cold in the gloom,
And she cried; but I said—Dear! desist or
I never shall get you safe home.
Then we ran and in good time got home.
Father said—How on airth have I miss'd her?
She said—I was never from home.
No, Pa! I was never from home.
I have been all the night in my room.
Now my head is as grey as an ember;
And my heart is all crisped and sere,—
Like a crisp leaf that's wither'd and sere;
And yet I am fain to remember
Above all the nights in the year—
Ah, Sally! if you were but here—
That night of all nights in the year—
Ah, Sally! if you were but here—
That cold dreamy night of November,
That night of all nights in the year,
That long ago night of November,—
The night we were out in, my dear!
And my heart is all crisped and sere,—
Like a crisp leaf that's wither'd and sere;
And yet I am fain to remember
Above all the nights in the year—
Ah, Sally! if you were but here—
That night of all nights in the year—
Ah, Sally! if you were but here—
That cold dreamy night of November,
That night of all nights in the year,
That long ago night of November,—
The night we were out in, my dear!
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