Classic Poem

In the little red house by the river,
—When the short night fell,
Beside his web sat the weaver,
—Weaving a twisted spell.
Mary and the Saints deliver
—My soul from the nethermost Hell!

In the little red house by the rushes
—It grew not dark at all,
For day dawned over the bushes
—Before the night could fall.
Where now a torrent rushes,
—The brook ran thin and small.

In the little red house a chamber
—Was set with jewels fair;
There did a vine clamber
—Along the clambering stair,
And grapes that shone like amber
—Hung at the windows there.

Will the loom not cease whirring?
—Will the house never be still?
Is never a horseman stirring
—Out and about on the hill?
Was it the cat purring?
—Did some one knock at the sill?

To the little red house a rider
—Was bound to come that night.
A cup of sheeny cider
—Stood ready for his delight.
And like a great black spider,
—The weaver watched on the right.

To the little red house by the river
—I came when the short night fell.
I broke the web for ever,
—I broke my heart as well.
Michael and the Saints deliver
—My soul from the nethermost Hell!