Hugh le Biron Goes To War

Hugh le Biron of Clayton Hall,
Loyal soldier of the Crown,
Answered at once when came the call,
“To arms! To arms!” Brave men stand tall
And don’t let their country down.

The Crown’s ministers had decreed
A distant emergency,
Some foreign land had to be freed
From a terror that mustn’t succeed;
A wicked insurgency.

Hugh buttoned up his battle dress,
As kith and kin gathered near
To wish him well and sure success;
Yet, he left his wife in distress
Possessed by terrible fear.

How skilled he proved in arts of war,
His courage beyond compare:
If some killed ten he’d slay a score
And then go after many more;
Where others might flinch he’d dare.

One night came a surprise attack
On the post he commanded,
His men urged that they should fall back
Before the fanatical pack:
Defence would leave them stranded.

Hugh was far too proud to retreat,
“We will hold our ground or die.”
A dreadful fight took place that night
Resulting in utter defeat
Once the dawn sun took the sky.

Though it wasn’t le Biron who’d lost,
His foes slaughtered to a man,
Their bodies lying cold as frost;
His own men bore an awful cost,
But he carried through his plan

Exhausted then he fell asleep
And as he slept came a dream:
His wife, so pale, began to weep
As she sank in dark waters deep,
Slipping from sight with a scream.

Then he was taking a salute
From a column marching by,
Their bodies pulped like rotting fruit,
Wounded, bleeding, all marching mute,
Ranks of those who’d had to die.
Which were enemies? Which were friends?
Hugh could not tell them apart.
Next came the throng, which never ends,
Those to whom such misfortune sends
The very worst when wars start.

Mothers and fathers of the slain
Whose tears can’t bring back lost lives.
Brothers and sisters bear the pain
Of those killed again and again,
And with them children and wives.

Hugh le Biron woke with a start,
Martial pride fallen away,
Iron grip of grief squeezed his heart,
He knew he had no further part
In this tragedy to play.

Dispatched on the next transport home,
With the wounded, and the dead
Who were then little more than loam
In fields they’d never again roam;
And many a one he’d led.

Hugh’d done it all for crown and state
And never once wondered why
Soldiers were sent to meet their fate
On foreign fields so sown with hate
Strangers met only to die.

Along the roads, along the lanes,
Over rivers in full spate,
To Clayton Hall through driving rains,
To Clayton Hall, ignoring pains,
He arrived, he arrived, but just too late.

Withered oak leaves hung limp from trees,
Dank hedgerows seemed dark with dread,
Spiders wove sombre filigrees
And Hugh was brought down to his knees,
Finding his wife three days dead.

Home too late, away far too long,
This last death a final knell,
For though the chimes of war are strong
Hugh learned to sing a different song
In retreat in Kersal Cell.

Hugh le Biron, hailed as hero,
By those who feel their pride swell
With tales of war they do not know,
Nor wounds that fester long and slow
For one alone in his cell.

BRINGING THE TIDE TO MORPETH

The aldermen of Morpeth met
To discuss their common weal,
For trade was good and commerce strong,
Their coffers deep and purses long,
Business had a busy feel.

And yet, they were not satisfied
Despite their profits being fine,
For greater income they would see,
Think how much better it could be
If Wansbeck was like the Tyne.

Those merchant men of Newcastle
Make good use of the sea,
Exploiting their commercial trips,
Because the tide brought in their ships
Right up to the city quay.

If the Wansbeck had been tidal
Transport costs could be kept down
As wind and water come for free,
But it wasn’t and never would be.
Then, Michael Scott came to town.

Michael Scott the wonder worker
Who’d bewitched the king of France,
Made trees speak, drew wine out from rock,
A mighty wizard and warlock,
The master of fate and chance.

Demons and sprites did his bidding,
He could turn night into day,
Some said he’d even conquered death,
So to bring the tide to Morpeth
Michael Scott just had to say.

He jibbed awhile at this request
For it was no easy task,
If there was something else, indeed,
Those aldermen might want or need
Then they only had to ask.

They’d each like a lover perhaps,
Or just wives who did not snore,
Recover hair, flatten the belly,
Have socks that were never smelly
Or wings so that they could soar.

May be, they’d like to be poets,
Or dressed in the finest clothes,
How about unicorns instead?
But each alderman shook his head,
No profit in all of those.

They wanted the tide in Morpeth!
Now, would the wizard accede?
He paused awhile and sighed a lot,
Drummed his fingers, then Michael Scott,
Quite reluctantly agreed.

But only the once could he call
This powerful magic down
It was such a hard spell to cast.
He needed someone who’d run fast,
The fastest runner in town.

He must be quick as a whippet
And should a stitch start nagging,
Not give into the pain or doubt,
Just run mile after mile without
Even a hint of flagging.

Young Alan Percy was summoned,
The fleetest youth they had got,
His heart pounded, his eyes glistened,
The while he carefully listened
To the words of Michael Scott.

“Stand at the mouth of the Wansbeck
And watch for the tidal race
As it enters the river, then,
Like being chased by desperate men,
Run for home at such a pace

“You keep ahead of the waters
Surging along at your rear.
You must gallop like a wild steed
Plunging on and on as you lead
That tide all the way back here.

“But, be warned young Alan Percy,
As you race across the ground,
No matter what you hear behind,
However much you are inclined,
You must never once look round.”

Next day, as the tide was rising,
At the Wansbeck’s mouth he stood,
Wave after wave did not relent
And he turned for home at the moment
The river was in full flood.

If he’d thought just a gentle jog
Would bring him to Morpeth’s bounds,
Such wishful hopes soon were gone,
He found a race for life was on,
Pursued by terrible sounds.

The roar of the tidal waters
Hardly a pace behind him,
Pressed his step as panic held sway,
He knew if he was swept away
No one would ever find him.

Worse, though, were cries of sea elves,
The souls of sailors who’d drowned
When their ships simply disappeared,
Down into the depths they were steered
And never a trace was found.

The waves were now their element
And their voice was the surf’s roar,
They’d overwhelm all they could find,
They rode white horses hard behind
The one who’d brought them ashore.

Alan Percy was running hard,
There were still ten miles to go
His lungs were bursting. His side pained,
And yet, at his heels, the tide gained
So he knew he could not slow.

It seemed the world was drained of air,
A pulse beat inside his head,
And sea elves in the urgent tide
Roared with fury, bellowed and cried
To see where they were being led.

Although he tried not to listen
Nor allow his pace to slack,
As he ran ahead of the surge
He became possessed by the urge
To, for a moment, glance back.

How hard he fought that temptation,
As if it might ease his plight.
Past Bothal village he sprinted,
From a distant spire sun glinted,
At last, Morpeth was in sight.

Yet, so tired was he with this race,
His young legs trembled and shook,
The sounds in the tide at his rear,
Screeching sea elves, filled him with fear,
He just had to take a look.

As he glanced over his shoulder
The elves mocked his endeavour,
Tide rushed back to sea in a breath,
The spell was broken, and Morpeth
Had lost the tide forever.

JOSEPH and the RED WEAVER

Like the legions long before him
Joseph was walking the Wall,
From Tyneside to the Solway Firth
His boots would tramp it all.

From the metalled streets of Wallsend,
Out over the fells and fields,
Shouldering his pack he rambled
Along to Sewingshields.

Such a land of stringent beauty,
Countryside of austere bliss,
Where the Wall seems insignificant
Perched atop a precipice.

As Joe looked along to the West
He saw a blight on his day,
Massing ranks of lowering cloud;
A storm was blowing his way.

He urgently needed shelter
Being too exposed where he stood,
The wind was rising so he must
Climb down the cliff if he could.

The rocks were wet and treacherous
As rain began to fall,
But part way down he found a cave
Running deep beneath the Wall.

A rough passage, narrow and low,
But a perfect place to hide
As lightning flashed and thunder growled,
Joseph eased himself inside.

Surely it should have been pitch-dark,
Yet, deeper he went roaming
Shadows gathered, but never more
Than to a dismal gloaming.

Gingerly Joseph made his way
Ever further down below,
Carefully edging towards where
There came a feint ruddy glow.

At last the tunnel opened out
Allowing him to pass
Through into a crystal chamber
Fashioned from flawless glass.

It was like being inside a gemstone,
Ruby light suffused the room,
And at the very centre sat
A weaver at her loom.

Intent she was upon her craft
As the busy shuttles flew,
Carrying endless coloured wefts,
All of a rubescent hue.

There was crimson thread and carmine,
Cerise and cinnabar,
Maroon, magenta and cherry,
Prussian rouge and realgar.

Cloth ceaselessly spooled from her loom,
Woven with cunning designs,
While the weaver in her scarlet gown,
Long red hair held by the tines

Of rose coloured combs, glanced at Joe.
Just for a moment, that’s all,
But her fiery eyes searingly
Seemed to burn into his soul.

Dreadful terror welled within him
Of the living and the dead,
Without any hesitation
Joseph turned around and fled

Frantically through the passageway,
And when the entrance was found
Clambered recklessly down the rock
And stood trembling on the ground.

The storm had passed, a bright sun shone,
Joe felt he’d escaped the grave,
Looking back at the sheer cliff face
He saw no sign of a cave.

MORWEN of the WOODLANDS

Being Prince of Powys Benlli was rich; rich of land and rich of cattle, with fine warriors at his beckoning.

Galloping through hoar-frost on his hunter, through winter stripped boughs of his forest, through dawn mist he spied her.

A beautiful young woman in an emerald gown flowing around her as red hair tumble about her slender shoulders.

The prince called through crystal air to her, while mist gathered as a pall so even as she waved she vanished.

On he rode to flush the stag, pursue the boar, but neither felt the sting of his arrows that day.

He could not ignore the vision he’d been granted, it became his mission to seek her, for had not his wife grown old and plain.

Day after day she teased him, never answering his calls except with a smile and a wave. Till the evening she appeased him.

As the gloaming gathered along the woodland path she stood in his way. He begged her to stay and dwell with him in his castle.

So fair of face was she when she smiled and so certain of herself she could make demands upon one so beguiled and expect their fulfilment.

“Send away your wife,” she said, “Then may we wed and share a life with but one condition.

“I must be absent from your bed once a week, for I am from the land of fairy and must return there one night in seven. Please understand,

“You must never follow me, then I shall not grow old, but remain as fair as this day of our pledging.”

With no pause or hedging the prince agreed. He steered his horse, with her set high upon its pommel, towards home to find his wife disappeared.

“My name is Morwen of the Woodlands.” She declared to the servants who were then themselves snared by the spell of her beauty.

How perfectly and well she carried out the duty of being a prince’s wife, except once a week when she deserted him who became troubled by an inner strife.

He was determined to keep his promise and yet he feared he’d fail in this. Was there some devious purpose to her absences?

An undeclared lover? A secret intrigue? Neither by day nor night was he spared this torment of a truth he could not discover.

Wylan, the prince’s confessor and not unversed in magical arts, conjured a confidence from his lord.

The once adored Morwen was the cause of his dark distress, she’d set his enemies free to plot against him, such had been his infatuation.

It was with regret Benlli had come to view their meeting. Had she not seduced him through her fleeting appearances?

Wylan deduced a devious plan whereby his prince would lose the prime source of his present misery while allowing the cunning cleric ample earthy reward.

Hiding a grimoire of sorcery beneath his habit, the monk made his way to the great standing stones marking the portal into the fairy mound.

Firstly came the rustling of leaves settling down and then the sound of the swishing skirts of a silken gown.

He sat and watched while the earth opened and she descended a marble staircase into the forbidden place mostly hidden from mortal eyes.

The monk opened his book and ground shook as he chanted a fine incantation. “Now,” he said, “She is mine.

“Come dawn and she must present herself at the church and be bound by marriage to me. Such is the oath I alone now make.”

Lit by the sun’s first rays Wylan, hurrying to the church, found a strange, grotesquely tall woman, sat on the steps.

By the days early light, though, she seemed familiar, and then he saw, on her third finger, the ruby ring Benlli had given Morwen.

“I am a giantess now.” She confessed. “Your spell made me divest myself of that fey form by which you knew me. But, on the honour of your life,

“By the oath you swore, you must make me your wife.” Wylan was struck dumb.
“I will tell all,” she said, “So come,

“Sit by me and listen. Ugly now and huge though I be, a great beauty I was a score and five years ago when first I married the prince.

“But I lost his love with my looks as years passed, so at last I made a bargain with the fairy folk, by which I’d remain beautiful,

“As long as I became a giantess in their land once a week. So was I able to sneak back into my husband’s affections as Morwen of the Woodlands.

“Now, though, I am ever cast this way and you are bound to me. This day it is that we must be wed.”

Wylan shrank back, made the sign of the cross and cried, “I will thank the angels if she is restored to her spouse and peace is restored to me.”

And so she was. Prince Benlli’s eyes at last saw through the game so he could see both his wife of the first call and Morwen of the Woodlands as being both the same.

Together then they lived out their lives with no further resort to charms, dying at peace, content in each others arms after many, many more years came and went.

Their castle sank into the earth and the waters of Lake Llynelys began to fill and close over them, and there they lie still.

A TWISTED TALE of the PENDLE WITCHES

As mist settled over Pendle,
And clocks chimed the midnight hour,
Came a rush of broomsticks heading
For desolate Malkin Tower.

Alice Nutter leading her brood,
Chattox and the other crones,
While all the good folk round about
Felt a chill strike to their bones.

Vipers’ venom, tongues torn from larks,
Dank water drawn from a mire,
Devilish brewing, foul doings,
Their cauldron set on a fire.

Round and around those witches danced
Widdershins, wildly shrieking,
Knarled and naked, faces twisted,
Their billowing breath reeking.

As Malkin Tower shook and shuddered
With all those wild hags inside,
Invoking spells and vile curses,
The door was thrown open wide.

Satanic revels ceased at once,
Witches cowering cold and grey;
The High Sheriff of Lancashire
Stood framed in Malkin’s doorway.

At his back a hundred troopers,
In his hands a legal writ,
“Damned we are!” thought all the witches,
“Drawn to where the judges sit.”

“Spare us,” they cried, “Rack and thumbscrews,
Confessions we freely make.
We repent, so don’t condemn us
To the scaffold or the stake.”

“Beowulf faced Grendle, “ he replied,
“And the mother of Grendle.
Now it falls to my duty to
Face the Witches of Pendle.

“But, do not fret or harbour fear,
You’ll be neither burned nor hung,
For business folk of Lancashire
Wish to have your praises sung.

“Art works, part works, witchy-start works,
Model witches astride brooms,
From Roughlee, Barley and beyond,
The trade in witchcraft booms.

“You have managed to conjure up
A vibrant business bounty
For authors, artists, shopkeepers
And trade throughout the county.

“So, from Chambers of Commerce and
The Lancashire Tourist Board,
I’ve come here to present to you
Our Gold Enterprise Award.”

LEGEND OF QUYKHAM CHURCH

Prince-Bishop ordered his masons to build
A new church for Saint Mary the Virgin,
The very best builders within their gild
Who, with hammer and chisel and whin-gin,
Would sharp raise walls as true as a plumb-line
On the King’s Meadow, an isle in the Tyne.

By the first day’s sunset the footings were laid
And two courses of stone set into place;
A keel brought them to the camp where they stayed,
Sleeping soundly that night, covered with grace.
But, next day, when to the isle the boat steered
They found all their good work had disappeared.

They stood dumbfounded, aghast and confused:
Who could possibly have cleared the whole site?
It looked like the land had never been used,
The whole work of a day undone by night.
Where had it all gone? No one knew, until
Shocking news came from Quykham on the hill.

That morning the innocent village awoke
To find fresh footings where none were before,
With stacks of dressed stone and beams of best oak:
Surely the work of angels, or devils, or
Fairy folk. Then someone said, “You know,
There’s a church being built on the King’s Meadow.”

Every stone and truss was carted back down
And the builders undid what was undone.
Masons grumbled, their foreman wore a frown,
Especially at the setting of the sun.
A priest spoke up, “We must conquer our fears:
I require watchmen, two stout volunteers.”

A couple of men settled for the night
As dismal shadows gathered dark and deep.
They drank strong ale by the warm campfire’s light
And, despite their resolve, they fell asleep.
Both were awakened by the new dawn’s chill
To find all was gone, once more, up the hill.

The good folk of Quykham again returned
All the stones and beams back down to the isle.
Yet, what the cause was had still not been learned;
The priest thought it must be his sacred trial.
Angels? Devils? Or some troublesome elf?
He decided he would keep watch himself.
When a day’s work was done for the third time
And builders retired to their camp once more,
The prelate remained to frustrate the crime,
With bible and club to even the score.
Moon reached its zenith in star-littered skies
When a fantastic scene assailed his eyes.

Over foundations, by newly laid stones,
Around oak beams and the idle whin-gins
Shaking scaffolding like fragile old bones,
A cunning Green Man dancing widdershins.
As he cavorted and led his wild chase,
A smile! A scowl! Then anger twisted his face.

Quaking, the priest stepped out from the shadows,
Confronting the Green Man, who sneered with disdain.
Angered, the prelate delivered two blows
With his club, splitting the Green Man in twain.
Quite what had happened was beyond his ken,
For he found himself facing two Green Men.

He brandished before him the sacred Good Book
And unto the highest angels he spoke.
Out from the clear sky a lightning bolt struck
And the two Green Men became wreathed in smoke.
When the smoke cleared from the vicinity
There weren’t two Green Men, but a trinity.

One with a wicked smile! One with a scowl!
And one with anger gnarling its features.
Defeated, the priest pulled forward his cowl,
Then surrendered to the whim of those creatures.
As they danced widdershins around him there
The blocks and beams spiralled into the air.

Next morning Quykham woke to find once more
Footings for a new church they had not planned,
And at the centre, its progenitor,
The priest, bewildered, making one demand,
“The spirit moves in a mysterious way,
So, where the church now stands, there let it stay.”

In Quykham, for Mary, a church did grow
And for long generations it has stood,
Overlooking the Tyne flowing below,
Serving the good and the not so good.
On its north wall to mark how it began
Are ranged the three faces of the Green man.

SEAL LOVER

He’s standing on the North Sea Shore,
Staring at the slate-grey main,
Wishing to wade into the waves
And never go home again.

No matter how chilled the waters
They couldn’t be colder than life,
And more willing to embrace him
Than his cold and distant wife.

Having walked out in the morning
He stalked the strand and dune,
Oblivious the sun had set,
Not seeing the rising moon.

By an isolated inlet,
Away from curious eyes,
He watched a seal slither ashore,
And, to his startled surprise,

It sloughed its dull pelt easily,
Exposing what was concealed,
A woman in her innocence
Fabulously revealed.

Her sea-coal black hair cascaded,
Skin pale as the moon on high,
Dark eyes silvered with a sparkle
Like bright stars in the night sky.

Then she sang such a sad lament
For the loves she’d lost at sea,
So broken hearted she sounded,
So in need of comfort he

Warily stepped from the shadows
Expecting she’d seek cover.
Instead, she smiled, “I can’t be your wife,
Yet I can be your lover.”

“Indeed you cannot be my spouse,
For I am already wed,
But, though man and wife are living
As lovers we are long dead.”

“That’s why I have come here,” she said,
“While the full moon rises free.
We can bring each other comfort
Till I return to the sea.

“I’ve ridden along on white horses
To this Northumberland strand.
All my lost loves are behind me,
Now as your lover I stand.”

On her lips he tasted the brine,
In her hair the salty breeze,
And wrapped only in moonlight
Each did the other one please.

He began to have a fancy
That when she settled to sleep
He might steal her seal skin away
Then she would be his to keep.

But, as the moon began to sink
And their passions had been spent,
He nestled in her warm embrace
And far away the world went.

Suddenly, he woke with a start,
To find himself all alone;
There was no sign of his lover
And the grey seal skin was gone.

Sadly he dressed and made his way
Back over the strand and dune,
He’d go back to his bleak home, but
Return come the next full moon.

OLD SYKES, HIS WIFE AND THEIR GOLD

Upon an unassuming farm
Close by old Samlesbury Hall,
Old Sykes and his wife lived like paupers,
As if they’d nothing at all.

No friends it seemed, nor family,
To ask after their health,
But, what they lacked in kith and kin
Was made up for by their wealth.

Bequests had left a store of gold
Which had been complemented
By frugal living all their lives:
Their fortune represented

All they cared about, their pleasure
And their purpose amounting
To gathering it together
And, coin by gold coin, counting.

They’d close the shutters, bolt the doors,
Stop up all chinks and spaces,
Then, when secured, they’d go around
Their secret hiding places.

Under a flagstone in the floor,
Behind the range where they’d cook,
Above a beam in their bedroom,
Loose brick in the ingle nook.

Little leather bags they gathered
On their oaken table top
And once they commenced the counting
They couldn’t bring themselves to stop.

All through the night the gold coins clinked
As they stacked them score by score,
Over and over, but come the dawn
They’d hide them away once more.

They lived as happy harmless misers,
But, tragedy lay in store
As King Charles and his Parliament
With each other went to war.

Too many lives lost! Buildings burned!
The conflict was coming near
To the land around Samlesbury,
Where two misers lived in fear.

What if marauding soldiers came
Should proud Preston have fallen?
Their farmhouse would be ransacked and
Their precious gold coins stolen.

So, they sealed their wealth in stone jars
One night, when no one might see,
Then buried them in their orchard
Beneath an old apple tree.

Cavaliers and Roundheads fought until
The King was captured and tried.
On the day he was beheaded
Old Sykes and his wife both died.

Following the funeral their house
Was thoroughly searched all round,
Hiding places were discovered,
But not a single coin found.

Years passed by as decades do, then
Centuries had come and gone,
The house, passing owner to owner,
Didn’t settle with anyone.

At last a young man moved in to
Make the ancient house his own,
His greatest pleasure being to sit
In the old orchard alone,

Watching birds hop from bough to bough,
The chaffinch and the blue-tit,
Sombre blackbird perched up high like
A preacher in his pulpit.

One evening, as the sun went down,
Shadows stretched when darkness neared,
He felt he was no longer alone:
Then a vague figure appeared.

Quite feint but clearly visible,
Beneath an old apple tree,
In a gown from another age,
Stood a woman who couldn’t be.

Yet, there she was looking pale and drawn,
And not a word did she speak,
Just pointed at the apple tree roots,
Night after night for a week.

The young man made no sense of her,
His speculations ran rife,
Till a neighbour told him the tale
Of Old Sykes and his wife.

Next morning the young man dug deep
Looking for the Old Sykes gold,
As he worked the wraith stood by him
And he felt he was being told

To dig even faster and deeper
Until he struck with his spade
A horde of antique stone vessels;
The spectre began to fade.

As he lifted the jars one by one
Her expression turned to bliss,
Then, vanishing, she’s not been seen
From that day on to this.

Round Samlesbury Hall it’s whispered,
In Samlesbury Bottoms told,
The tale of a favoured young man,
Old Sykes, his wife and their gold.

THE WHITE MOTH

In his solitary cottage
Upon the bleak loch shore,
Sat Donald alone by his fire
As night gathered on the moor.

Waters were cold and grey as slate,
A bitter wind in a rush
Whined in the eves and sadly shushed
Through an old barbed briar bush.

Donald dozed in his chair awhile,
Warmed by the fire’s red glow,
Then, with a start, he was woken
By tapping at his window.

A white moth danced around the panes,
Fluttering against the glass
As if it might clearly give way
And allow the moth to pass.

Fascinated, Donald stood up
And opened the window wide,
The white moth rose from off the sill
Frantically flying inside.

It flew in circles round the room
Through shades of coming night,
But, when Donald lit his oil lamp,
It flew straight towards the light.

The white moth hovered over the flame
Then, swooping directly down,
Frizzled in a flash, but in its stead,
Standing in a pure white gown,

A woman where the scorched remains
Should’ve been of the moth that died,
“Who are you? Donald asked amazed.
“I’m the white moth.” She replied.

“If you marry me I will be
Your love, your mate, your delight
And you shall never be lonely
Either by day or by night.”

Donald became besotted by
Her porcelain complexion,
They married, and he settled down,
A happy, contented man

She only made but one demand,
“Let our one light be the fire,
For should you ever light the lamp
The consequence will be dire.”

Donald gladly heeded her wish,
So his lamp remained unlit,
They’d sit by the fire happily
No matter how dark the night.

Along the loch shore, down the road,
In the village, by the store,
Lived a woman who’d set her heart
On Donald out by the moor.

When she found she had been usurped
By so pale and frail a lass,
The green demon of jealousy
Whispered, “Do not let this pass!”

She’d go to the cottage in darkness
And through the window she’d spy,
Seeing them happy hurt her so
She wanted the lass to die.

She watched one night as, thoughtlessly,
Donald went to light his lamp,
Such was the shrill shriek from his wife
As if some terrible cramp

Had suddenly racked her with pain,
“You mustn’t light the lamp!” she cried.
What she must do became quite clear
To her mean rival outside.

Next evening before Donald returned
The rival knocked at his door
And when the guileless wife answered
She fell feint upon the floor.

“I’ve been taken by giddiness,”
Softly spoke Envy’s daughter,
“Please, for pity, let me come in
And sip a draught of water.”

While Mercy went to her kitchen,
Merciless plotted her doom,
Lighting the lamp she turned it up
So it shone throughout the room.

When the fay wife returned once more
She dropped the cup in her fright,
Though she tried to shield her eyes and turn,
She could not resist the light.

It drew her closer and closer,
She cried out her husband’s name,
Then she stretched out a hand and touched
The very heart of the flame.

At once the lamp guttered and died,
The doomed wife fell to the floor
Where she simply shrivelled away
And became a moth once more.

At that moment Donald appeared,
He watched the frail white moth soar,
Petrified, he just stood and watched
As it flew out through the door,

Into the gathering shadows,
Lurking around the bleak loch,
Soon he had lost all sight of it
And he started from his shock.

Into pitiless night he ran,
His cries so brittle with pain,
Chasing in vain pursuit of her,
Never to be seen again.

The jealous rival stood alone,
In the doorway’s gloaming hush,
Staring through tears at a white moth
Impaled on a briar bush.

                                                         Balladear