Classic Poem

On a wild moor, all brown and bleak,
Where broods the heath-frequenting grouse,
There stood a tenement antique,
Lord Hoppergollop's country house.

Here silence reigned with lips of glue,
And undisturbed maintained her law;
Save when the owl cried " whoo! whoo! whoo! "
Or the hoarse crow croaked " caw! caw! caw! "

Neglected mansion! — for 'tis said,
Whene'er the snow came feathering down,
Four barbed steeds — from the Bull's Head —
Carried thy master up to town.

Weak Hoppergollop! Lords may moan,
Who stake in London their estate
On two small rattling bits of bone,
On little figure or on great .

Swift whirl the wheels — he's gone. A rose
Remains behind, whose virgin look
Unseen must blush in wintry snows,
Sweet, beauteous blossom! — 'twas the cook!

A bolder far than my weak note,
Maid of the Moor! thy charms demand.
Eels might be proud to lose their coat
If skinned by Molly Dumpling's hand.

Long had the fair one sat alone,
Had none remained save only she; —
She by herself had been, if one
Had not been left for company.

'Twas a tall youth, whose cheek's clear hue
Was tinged with health and manly toil:
Cabbage he sowed, and when it grew,
He always cut it off, to boil.

Oft would he cry, " Delve, delve the hole! "
And prune the tree, and trim the root;
And stick the wig upon the pole,
To scare the sparrows from the fruit.

A small mute favourite by day
Followed his step; where'er he wheels
His barrow round the garden gay
A bobtail cur was at his heels.

Ah, man! the brute creation see!
Thy constancy oft needs the spur;
While lessons of fidelity
Are found in every bobtail cur.

Hard toiled the youth, so fresh and strong,
While Bobtail in his face would look,
And marked his master troll the song —
" Sweet Molly Dumpling! oh, thou cook! "

For thus he sung, while Cupid smiled,
Pleased that the gardener owned his dart,
Which pruned his passions, running wild,
And grafted true-love on his heart.

Maid of the Moor! his love return!
True love ne'er tints the cheek with shame;
When gardeners' hearts like hot-beds burn,
A cook may surely feed the flame.

Ah! not averse from love was she,
Though pure as Heaven's snowy flake.
Both loved; and though a gardener he,
He knew not what it was to rake.

Cold blows the blast; the night's obscure;
The mansion's crazy wainscots crack; —
No star appeared, and all the moor —
Like every other Moor — was black.

Alone, pale, trembling, near the fire,
The lovely Molly Dumpling sat;
Much did she fear, and much admire
What Thomas Gardener could be at.

Listening, her hand supports her chin;
But ah! no foot is heard to stir.
He comes not from the garden in,
Nor he nor little bobtail cur.

They cannot come, sweet maid! to thee;
Flesh, both of cur and man, is grass;
And what's impossible can't be,
And never, never comes to pass.

She paces through the hall antique
To call her Thomas from his toil;
Opes the huge door; the hinges creak —
Because the hinges wanted oil.

Thrice on the threshold of the hall
She " Thomas! " cried, with many a sob;
And thrice on Bobtail did she call,
Exclaiming, sweetly, " Bob! Bob! Bob! "

Vain maid! a gardener's corpse, 'tis said,
In answers can but ill succeed;
And dogs that hear when they are dead
Are very cunning dogs indeed!

Back through the hall she bent her way:
All, all was solitude around!
The candle shed a feeble ray,
Though a large mould of four to the pound.

Full closely to the fire she drew,
A down her cheek a salt tear stole;
When lo! a coffin out there flew,
And in her apron burnt a hole!

Spiders their busy death-watch ticked,
A certain sign that fate will frown;
The clumsy kitchen-clock too clicked,
A certain sign it was not down.

More strong and strong her terrors rose,
Her shadow did the maid appal;
She trembled at her lovely nose,
It look'd so long against the wall.

Up to her chamber, damp and cold,
She climbed Lord Hoppergollop's stair,
Three stories high, long, dull, and old,
As great lords' stories often are.

All nature now appeared to pause,
And " o'er the one half world seemed dead. "
No " curtained sleep " had she — because
She had no curtains to her bed.

Listening she lay. With iron din
The clock struck twelve ; the door flew wide;
When Thomas grimly glided in,
With little Bobtail by his side.

Tall, like the poplar, was his size;
Green, green his waistcoat was, as leeks;
Red, red as beetroot, were his eyes;
Pale, pale as turnips, were his cheeks.

Soon as the spectre she espied,
The fear-struck damsel faintly said,
" What would my Thomas? " He replied,
" Oh, Molly Dumpling, I am dead!

" All in the flower of youth I fell,
Cut off with health's full blossom crowned;
I was not ill — but in a well
I tumbled backwards and was drowned.

" Four fathom deep thy love doth lie,
His faithful dog his fate doth share; —
We're Fiends! — this is not he and I
We are not here , for we are there .

" Yes, two foul Water-Fiends are we.
Maid of the Moor, attend us now!
Thy hour's at hand; we come for thee! "
The little Fiend-cur said " Bow wow! "

" To wind her in her cold, cold grave,
A Holland sheet a maiden likes:
A sheet of water thou shalt have —
Such sheets there are in Holland dykes. "

The Fiends approach; the Maid did shrink;
Swift through the night's foul air they spin;
They took her to the green well's brink,
And with a souse they plumped her in.

So true the fair, so true the youth,
Maids to this day their story tell;
And hence the proverb rose, that truth
Lies in the bottom of a well.