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Songs of the Ridings by F. W. (Frederic William) Moorman
page 66 of 70 (94%)
The Flower of Wensleydale;
'Twas St Agnes Eve at midnight,
Through the mist the stars burnt pale.

In her hand she held twelve sage-leaves,
Plucked in her garden at noon;
And over them she had whispered thrice
The spell of a mystic rune.

For many had come a-wooing
The maid with the sloe-blue eyes;
Fain would she learn of St Agnes
To whom should fall the prize.

They said she must drop a sage-leaf
At each stroke of the midnight hour;
Then should the knight of her father's choice
Obey the summons of her voice,
And appear 'neath her oriel'd bowwer.

To the holy virgin-martyr
She lifted her hands in prayer;
Then she watched the rooks that perched asleep
In the chestnut branches bare.

At last on the frosty silence
There rang out the midnight chime;
And the hills gave back in echoes
The knell of the dying time.

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