RHONA’S LETTER

On Christmas Eve I seed in dreams the day

When Herne the Scollard come and said tome,

He s off, that rye o yourn, gone cleanaway

gentleman

Till swallow-time; hes left this letter:see.

In dreams I heerd the bee and grasshopper,

Like on that mornin, buz in RingtonHollow,

Shell live till swallow-time and then shellmer,

die

For never will a rye come back to her

gentleman

Wot leaves her till the comin o the swallow.

All night I heerd them bees andgrasshoppers;

All night I smelt the breath o grass and may,

Mixed sweet wi’ smells o honey from the furze

Like on that mornin when you went away;

All night I heerd in dreams my daddy sal,

laugh

Sayin, De blessed chi ud give de chollo

girl-whole

O Bozzles breed—tans, vardey, greis, andall—

tents: waggons: horses

To see dat tarno rye o hern palall

back

Wots left her till the comin o the swallow.

I woke and went a-walkin on the ice

All white with snow-dust, just like sparklin loon,

salt

And soon beneath the stars I heerd a vice,

A vice I knowed and often, often shoon;

hear

An then I seed a shape as thin as tuv;

smoke

I knowed it wur my blessed mammy s mollo. [403a]

spirit

Rhona, she sez, that tarno rye you love,

He s thinkin on you; don t you go and rove;

weep

You ll see him at the comin o the swallow.

Sez she, For you it seemed to kill the grass

When he wur gone, and freeze the brooklets gillies;

songs

There wornt no smell, dear, in the sweetest cas,

hay

And when the summer brought the water-lilies,

And when the sweet winds waved the golden giv,

wheat

The skies above em seemed as bleak and kollo [403b]

black

As now, when all the world seems frozen yiv.

snow

The months are long, but mammy says you ll live

By thinkin o the comin o the swallow.

She sez, The whinchat soon wi silver throat

Will meet the stonechat in the buddin whin,

And soon the blackcaps airliest gillie ull float

song

From light-green boughs through leaves a-peepin thin;

The wheat-ear soon ull bring the willow-wren,

And then the fust fond nightingale ull follow,

A-callin Come, dear, to his laggin hen

Still out at sea, the spring is in our glen;

Come, darlin, wi the comin o the swallow.

And she wur gone! And then I read the words

In mornin twilight wot you rote to me;

They made the Christmas sing with summer birds,

And spring-leaves shine on every frozen tree;

And when the dawnin kindled Rington spire,

And curdlin winter-clouds burnt gold and lollo

red

Round the dear sun, wot seemed a yolk o fire,

Another night, I sez, has brought him nigher;

He s comin wi the comin o the swallow.

And soon the bull-pups found me on the Pool—

You know the way they barks to see me slide—

But when the skatin bors o Rington scool

Comed on, it turned my head to see em glide.

I seemed to see you twirlin on your skates,

And somethin made me clap my hans and hollo;

It s him, I sez, achinnin o them 8s.

cutting

But when I woke-like—Im the gal wot waits

Alone, I sez, the comin o the swallow.

Comin seemed ringin in the Christmas-chime;

Comin seemed rit on everything I seed,

In beads o frost along the nets o rime,

Sparklin on every frozen rush and reed;

And when the pups began to bark and play,

And frisk and scrabble and bite my frock and wallow

Among the snow and fling it up like spray,

I says to them, You know who rote to say

He s comin wi the comin o the swallow.

The thought on t makes the snow-drifts o December

Shine gold, I sez, like daffodils o spring

Wot wait beneath: hes comin, pups, remember;

If not—for me no singin birds ull sing:

No choring chiriklo ull hold the gale

cuckoo

Wi Cuckoo, cuckoo, [404] over hill andhollow:

Therell be no crakin o the meadow-rail,

Therell be no Jug-jug o the nightingale,

For her wot waits the comin o the swallow.

Come back, minaw, and you may kiss your han

mine own

To that fine rawni rowin on the river;

lady

I ll never call that lady a chovihan

witch

Nor yit a mumply gorgie—I’ll forgive her.

miserable Gentile

Come back, minaw: I wur to be your wife.

Come back—or, say the word, and I will follow

Your footfalls round the world: Ill leave this life

(Ive flung away a-ready that ere knife)—

I m dyin for the comin o the swallow.

On Christmas Eve I seed in dreams the day

When Herne the Scollard come and said to me,

He s off, that rye o yourn, gone clean away

gentleman

Till swallow-time; hes left this letter: see.