Songs of the Ridings by F. W. (Frederic William) Moorman
page 66 of 70 (94%)
page 66 of 70 (94%)
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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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