{"id":668,"date":"2016-11-10T22:41:44","date_gmt":"2016-11-10T22:41:44","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.otherworld-apothecary.com\/blog\/?p=668"},"modified":"2016-11-10T22:41:44","modified_gmt":"2016-11-10T22:41:44","slug":"a-ghostly-ballad","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.otherworld-apothecary.com\/blog\/2016\/11\/a-ghostly-ballad\/","title":{"rendered":"A Ghostly Ballad"},"content":{"rendered":"

Tonight is Martinmas eve, associated in old ballads and poetry with the growing dark and the returning dead (as in The Wife of Usher’s Well<\/a>). As such, I thought it an appropriate time to share this old verse written by Reinelm and published in 1841. The themes in it have commonalities with the Child Ballads and those collected from Appalachia. Interestingly, it also features the burial of the unquiet dead at a crossed roads, which is one of the reasons witches are thought to work there. <\/p>\n

THE OLD SMITHY
\n(a farm house tale) <\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cThe snow is drifting on the ground,
\n   And loud the east wind roars;
\nCome, men and maidens, hie you in;
\n   Kate, bar those creaking doors.<\/p>\n

Call in the dogs, rouse up the fire;
\n   And, mistress do you hear?
\nHeat us a jug of elder wine,
\n   For the night is chill and drear.\u201d<\/p>\n

The good old dame, with clanking keys,
\n   Hung by her apron side,
\nThrows back the carved oak cupboard door,
\n   With hospitable pride.<\/p>\n

There, tall-stalked glasses, flagons, flasks,
\n   And horns with silver rim,
\nOld china beakers, cups, and bowls,
\n   With claws and frosted brim.<\/p>\n

Spice-bread and nuts for winter cheer,
\n   And saffron cakes are stored,
\nTea, sugar, coffee, jars of sweets,
\n   And rum a liberal hoard.<\/p>\n

They hob and nob, the old house clock
\n   Hath barely stricken seven,
\nBut wine and warmth have made them yawn,
\n   As though it were eleven.<\/p>\n

The fire-light flickers broad on racks,
\n   On tins and homely delf,
\nLong guns are resting on the wall,
\n   Above the chimney shelf.<\/p>\n

The dogs lie slumbering on the hearth,
\n   And loud the kitten purrs,–
\nSays one, \u201cTwill be an awful night,
\n   God help all travelers.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAmen!\u201d replied the good old dame\u2014
\n   \u201cAmen! \u201cthe farmer cried\u2014
\n\u201cThat minds me of a darksome tale
\n   Of the Black Common side.<\/p>\n

\u2018Twas at the time of Martinmas,
\n   As near as near could be,
\nThat a horseman stood by the four cross-roads,
\n   Under the Blasted Tree. <\/p>\n

The wind blew wildly from the moor,
\n   The red fern whistled shrill;
\nAnd his good steed had cast his shoe,
\n   Upon the weary hill.<\/p>\n

The traveler held his gallant grey,
\n   With his hand upon the mane.
\n\u2018Twas dark with sweat, and red with mire,
\n   Foam fleck\u2019d the bridle rein.<\/p>\n

When, hark! –chink chink \u2013\u2018twas the hammer’s clink,
\n   And he wildered looked around,
\nAnd he joyful heard, a bow-shot off,
\n   An anvil’s welcome sound.<\/p>\n

Drear was the night, the way was lone,
\n   When gladly did he mark
\nA cottage built by a clump of firs,
\n   And a smithy’s ruddy spark. <\/p>\n

The smith that wrought that midnight forge,
\n   Was tall and giant limb\u2019d
\nAnd he seized the rein with a rude, rough grasp
\n   And a hand with soot begrimm\u2019d.<\/p>\n

\u2018Now ply the hammer, farrier,
\n   I pray thee make good speed,
\nFor we\u2019ve many a weary mile to go,
\n   I and my gallant steed.\u2019<\/p>\n

He loos\u2019d the girths from the panting horse,
\n   The saddle-bags hung low.
\nAnd the farrier heard the chink of gold,
\n   As they swayed to and fro. <\/p>\n

A thought shot through his burning brain,
\n   \u2018Twas in an evil hour,
\nThe night was dark the road was lone,
\n   The traveler in his power. <\/p>\n

He raised an iron bar on high,
\n   The stranger gave not heed\u2014
\nHe fell\u2019d him dead with a single stroke
\n   At the feet of the startled steed.<\/p>\n

He buried him deep on the dismal heath,
\n   As I\u2019ve heard my father tell.
\nAnd he cut the throat of the noble horse,
\n   And buried him as well.<\/p>\n

The raven croak\u2019d from the Blasted Tree,
\n   As from the heath he ran,
\nAnd the wind sighed low in the quaking fern,
\n   Like the moan of a murder d man.<\/p>\n

Years pass\u2019d away\u2014the smith had wed
\n   And a thrifty wife had he\u2014
\nNone knew nor guessed of the blood-bought gold,
\n   For he spent it warily.<\/p>\n

And he lived in the cot by the clump of firs,
\n   As though his soul were cleared
\nOf the dark red stain, or his harden\u2019d heart,
\n   By an iron brand was sear\u2019d.<\/p>\n

‘Twas in the time of Martinmas,
\n   When the ways were drear and lone,
\nThere ran by the smithy a long, lean hound
\n   And he dropp\u2019d a fleshless bone.<\/p>\n

A bone, ’twas a human skull!
\n   All grinning, bleach\u2019d and bare,
\nWith its eyeless sockets upwards turned,
\n   With a grim and ghastly stare.<\/p>\n

The farrier started from the forge,
\n   A conscience stricken man,
\nAnd he hang\u2019d himself on the Blasted Tree,
\n   Just where the cross roads ran. <\/p>\n

They buried him deep at the dead of night,
\n   Where suicides must rest.
\nNo coffin closed his guilty head,
\n   No shroud enwrapp\u2019d his breast.<\/p>\n

But there by the tree in that dread spot
\n   Where the four cross roads do meet
\nA stake was driven through his heart,
\n   A stone weighed down his feet.<\/p>\n

His wife grew sick of a broken heart,
\n   She pine’d away and died,
\nAnd none have lived since in the ruined cot,
\n   By the Black Common side. <\/p>\n

And such as dare to pass that way,
\n   When Martinmas comes \u2018round,
\nHave heard the midnight hammer’s din,
\n   And the ghostly anvil’s sound.<\/p>\n

And then comes the tramp of a weary steed
\n   When the road is drear and lone,
\nAnd the wind sighs low in the ragged fern,
\n   Like to a dying moan.”<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Tonight is Martinmas eve, associated in old ballads and poetry with the growing dark and the returning dead (as in The Wife of Usher’s Well). As such, I thought it an appropriate time to share this old verse written by Reinelm and published in 1841. The themes in it have commonalities with the Child Ballads … Continue reading A Ghostly Ballad<\/span> →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[1],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.otherworld-apothecary.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/668"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.otherworld-apothecary.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.otherworld-apothecary.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.otherworld-apothecary.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.otherworld-apothecary.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=668"}],"version-history":[{"count":9,"href":"https:\/\/www.otherworld-apothecary.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/668\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":677,"href":"https:\/\/www.otherworld-apothecary.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/668\/revisions\/677"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.otherworld-apothecary.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=668"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.otherworld-apothecary.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=668"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.otherworld-apothecary.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=668"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}