Cold blows the blast:—the night's obscure:
The mansion's crazy wainscots crack:
The sun had sunk:—and all the moor,
Like ev'ry other moor—was black.
Alone, pale, trembling, near the fire,
The lovely Molly Dumpling sat,
Much did she fear, and much admire,
What Thomas, gard'ner 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 gard'ners 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 th' pound.
Full closely to the fire she drew;
Adown 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 tick'd;
A certain sign that fate will frown;
The clumsy kitchen clock, too, click'd;
A certain sign it was not down.