BLACK HORSE LANE
Dame Jane the music mistress,
the music mistress;
Sharkie the baker of Black Horse Lane,
At sound of a fiddle
Caught her up by the middle—
And away like swallows from the lane,
Flying out together—
From the crooked lane.
What words said Sharkie to her,
said Sharkie to her?
How did she look in the lane?
No neighbour heard
One sigh or one word,
Not a sound but the fiddling in Black Horse Lane,
The happy noise of music—
Again and again.
Where now be those two old 'uns,
be those two old 'uns,
Sharkie the baker run off with Jane?
Hark ye up to Flint Street,
Halloo to Pepper-Mint Street,
Follow by the fells to the great North Plain,
By the fells and the river—
To the cold North Plain.
How came this passion to them,
this passion to them,
Love in a freshet on Black Horse Lane?
It came without warning
One blue windy morning
So they scarcely might know was it joy or pain,
With scarce breath to wonder—
Was it joy or pain.
Took they no fardels with them,
no fardels with them,
Out and alone on the ice-bound plain?
Sharkie he had rockets
And crackers in his pockets,
Ay, and she had a plaid shawl to keep off the rain,
An old Highland plaid shawl—
To keep off the rain.