Then those bells stop,
The bells of wandering fancies
And Autumn and Summer chances;
And a bell rings with a flop,
A sort of heavy drop,
A distant blunt bark,
As if it was made in the dark,
And lived underground like a mole,
And the rope was as black as a coal.
O bell, what a comical voice!
What a stupid sort of noise!
Do you call it ringing or drumming?
And who is it that is coming?
It must be a bogie of some sort,
A blunt, black, stupid, dumb sort!
Hark! what do we hear this bell say?
And what do you hear Dell say?
“This is the King of the Blackaways,
And very black is he,
So black you cannot see his face,—
Not you! No more can we!
Black, black,
Breast and back;
Teeth and eyes,
Lips likewise;
Just like a blot
Tied in a knot!
And oh, the land of the Blackaways,
Where this King reigns, is a very black place.
The grass is black, and so are the trees,
The chalk is black, and so are the geese;
The milk, the eggs, the flour, and the cheese;
The sheets and the shirts; for it all agrees!”
Get you gone, Blackaway King, if you please!
And dine off black bread, and flesh of black geese,
Where the grass grows black on the Blackaway leas!
