Oh, hark! slow footsteps on the sand, And women wailing sore: “Dame Margaret! Dame Margaret! Your son you’ll see no more!
God pity you! Christ comfort you!” The weeping women cried; But “May God pity Annie Blair!” Dame Margaret replied.
“For life is long and youth is strong, And it must still bear on. Leave us alone to make our moan— My son! alas, my son!”
The Easter morning, flushed with joy, Saw all the winds at rest, And far and near the blue sea smiled With sunshine on its breast.
The neighbors came, the neighbors went; They sought the house of prayer; But on the rocks of Danger Head The dame and Annie Blair,
With still, white faces, watched the deep Without a tear or moan. “I cannot weep,” said Annie Blair— “My heart is turned to stone.”
Forth from the church the pastor came, And up the rocks strode he, Baring his thin white locks to meet The salt breath of the sea.
“The rocks shall rend, the earth shall quake, The sea give up its dead, For Christ our Lord is risen indeed— ’Tis Easter morn,” he said.
Oh, hark! oh, hark! A startled cry, A rush of hurrying feet, The swarming of a hundred men Adown the village street.