Close against the mountain braced
Ran the long white wall there,
And the cross, in sorrow placed,
Silent rose o'er all there.
Jehu straight, his humor spent,
Left his tuneful courses;
On the cross his gaze he bent
Then pulled up his horses.
"Here's where horse and coach must wait—
You may think it odd, sir:—
But up yonder, lies my mate
Underneath the sod, sir.
"Better lad was never born—
(Sir 'twas God's own pity!)
No one else could blow the horn
Half as shrill and pretty.
"So I stop beside the wall
Every time I pass here,
And I blow his favorite call
To him under grass here."
Toward the churchyard then he blew
One call after other,
That they might go ringing through
To his sleeping brother.
From the cliff each lively note
Echoing resounded,
As it were the dead man's throat
Answering strains had sounded.
On we went through field and hedge,
Loosened bridles jingling;
Long that echo from the ledge
In my ear kept tingling.
* * * * *