The Dead Mother
The moon has dropt behind the moor,
The night is quiet and still . . .
What makes the flesh of Lord Roland
To shudder and turn chill?
Something stirs in the light o'the flame,
Aye drifting nigher and nigher . . .
"My hands are chill," says a voice in the wind,
"Give me a crust o'your bread, my son.
Give me a cup o'your wine.
Long have I fasted for your sake.
And long you'll fast for mine."
Lord Roland stares across the dusk
With stern and dreadful eyes.
There's only a wind in the light o' the fire,
A wind that shudders and sighs.
"My limbs are faint," sighs a voice in the wind
"My feet are bruised and torn —
"It's long I've seen no linen sheets,
I'll rest me here till morn."
There's an eerie shape in the chamber now.
And shadowy feet that move;
The fire goes out in a sullen ash,
Like the angry end of love—
And out of doors the red cock cries.
And then the white and the grey —
Where one spirit crossed Whinny-moor,
There's two that hurry away.
And silent sits Lord Roland, alone.
Stiff, with a look of dread;
And the chilly beams of morning fall
About a dead man's head.
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