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 Sextons' Supper.
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 | Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs |  |
The Sextons' Supper.
The Plague, his black hand lifted,
Was floating down the Rhine,
His bark a soft-lined coffin
(On each side grew the vine);
He struck the miller at his wheel,
The woodman by his tree;
Before him rose the prayer and hymn,
Behind, the Dirige.
Was floating down the Rhine,
His bark a soft-lined coffin
(On each side grew the vine);
He struck the miller at his wheel,
The woodman by his tree;
Before him rose the prayer and hymn,
Behind, the Dirige.
He found them spinning wedding robes,
He left them digging graves;
High over faces pale and wrung
The earth heaped up its waves.
He struck the baron at his gate,
The peasant at the plough,
And from his sable banner shook
Darkness on every brow.
He left them digging graves;
High over faces pale and wrung
The earth heaped up its waves.
He struck the baron at his gate,
The peasant at the plough,
And from his sable banner shook
Darkness on every brow.
At this time in a belfry-room
Five sextons drained the wine,
Red from the toil that brought the fee
And made their old eyes shine.
Their seats were cedar coffin-planks,
All velvet-trimmed and soft;
The chalice-cups, by them defiled,
Were filled and emptied oft.
Five sextons drained the wine,
Red from the toil that brought the fee
And made their old eyes shine.
Their seats were cedar coffin-planks,
All velvet-trimmed and soft;
The chalice-cups, by them defiled,
Were filled and emptied oft.
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They drank “A long reign to King Plague!”
“A wet year and a foul!”
As screaming through the open loops
Flew in and out the owl.
Their shirts were made of dead men's vests
(Dead men are meek and dumb),
And each one wore a dead knight's ring
Upon his thievish thumb.
“A wet year and a foul!”
As screaming through the open loops
Flew in and out the owl.
Their shirts were made of dead men's vests
(Dead men are meek and dumb),
And each one wore a dead knight's ring
Upon his thievish thumb.
Down from the boarded floor above
The heavy bell-rope swings,
It coils among the bowls and flasks,
The cups and drinking things.
The cresset throws a gloom of black
Upon the red-tiled floor—
Three faces dark—on two the lights
Their golden lustres pour.
The heavy bell-rope swings,
It coils among the bowls and flasks,
The cups and drinking things.
The cresset throws a gloom of black
Upon the red-tiled floor—
Three faces dark—on two the lights
Their golden lustres pour.
Beside the table sink the steps
That lead into a vault—
A treasure-house no thieves but five
Dared ever yet assault.
And through the darkness to the left
Winds up the belfry stair—
Up to the old bell-chamber—
Up to the cooler air.
That lead into a vault—
A treasure-house no thieves but five
Dared ever yet assault.
And through the darkness to the left
Winds up the belfry stair—
Up to the old bell-chamber—
Up to the cooler air.
The wall was hung with coffin-plates,
The dates rubbed duly out
(Dead men are very dull and slow
In finding these things out).
They toast “The Doctors of Cologne,
Who keep the church-spades bright!”
Such toasts as these, such feast as that,
Were fit for such a night.
The dates rubbed duly out
(Dead men are very dull and slow
In finding these things out).
They toast “The Doctors of Cologne,
Who keep the church-spades bright!”
Such toasts as these, such feast as that,
Were fit for such a night.
Far, far above among the bells
The wind blew devil fierce,
The sleet upon the beggar fell,
And stabbed him carte and tierce.
There was a pother in the roofs,
And such a clash of tiles,
That dying creatures' sobs and groans
Were heard around for miles.
The wind blew devil fierce,
The sleet upon the beggar fell,
And stabbed him carte and tierce.
There was a pother in the roofs,
And such a clash of tiles,
That dying creatures' sobs and groans
Were heard around for miles.
They drink to “Peter and to Paul!”
And “All men underground!”
Then with a laugh, and a wink, and nudge,
The passing-bell they sound.
They drink to the tree that gives the plank,
And the tree that guards the dead—
The coal-black tree with the blood-drop fruit,
So poisonous, soft, and red.
And “All men underground!”
Then with a laugh, and a wink, and nudge,
The passing-bell they sound.
They drink to the tree that gives the plank,
And the tree that guards the dead—
The coal-black tree with the blood-drop fruit,
So poisonous, soft, and red.
Is God, then, sleeping? No! See there,
How one tears at his throat,
And baring neck and shoulder,
Bids all his fellows note.
A plague-spot, blue and swollen,
Shows ghastly on the skin,
And on his knees he prays to Christ
To yet forgive his sin.
How one tears at his throat,
And baring neck and shoulder,
Bids all his fellows note.
A plague-spot, blue and swollen,
Shows ghastly on the skin,
And on his knees he prays to Christ
To yet forgive his sin.
Dead! And the eldest tolling
The rope that o'er them hung,
Called, with a curse, “Lads, fill your cups,
Let another song be sung!”
Then reels—his white face sickens,
And as he staggers down,
Another drags at the heavy bell
Stamped with the cross and crown.
The rope that o'er them hung,
Called, with a curse, “Lads, fill your cups,
Let another song be sung!”
Then reels—his white face sickens,
And as he staggers down,
Another drags at the heavy bell
Stamped with the cross and crown.
So every time a toper fell
Another rose to toll,
And all the rest screamed out a dirge
For the sinner's passing soul.
And round they stirred the gallon jug,
And high they flung the cup,
With half a song and half a prayer
They tossed it, filling up.
Another rose to toll,
And all the rest screamed out a dirge
For the sinner's passing soul.
And round they stirred the gallon jug,
And high they flung the cup,
With half a song and half a prayer
They tossed it, filling up.
Now but one left, and he, though faint,
Staggers towards the rope,
And tolls—first draining cup and bowl,
Half dead, without a hope—
Tolls, till the old tower rocks again—
Tolls, with a hand of lead—
Then falls upon the wine-drenched floor
Upon his fellows—dead!
Staggers towards the rope,
And tolls—first draining cup and bowl,
Half dead, without a hope—
Tolls, till the old tower rocks again—
Tolls, with a hand of lead—
Then falls upon the wine-drenched floor
Upon his fellows—dead!
| Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs | |