Mary - A Ballad
Author
Note:
The
story
of
the
following
ballad
was
related
to
me,
when
a
school
boy,
as
a
fact
which
had
really
happened
in
the
North
of
England.
I
have
adopted
the
metre
of
Mr.
Lewis's
Alonzo
and
Imogene—a
poem
deservedly
popular.
I.
Who
is
she,
the
poor
Maniac,
whose
wildly-fix'd
eyes
Seem
a
heart
overcharged
to
express?
She
weeps
not,
yet
often
and
deeply
she
sighs,
She
never
complains,
but
her
silence
implies
The
composure
of
settled
distress.
II.
No
aid,
no
compassion
the
Maniac
will
seek,
Cold
and
hunger
awake
not
her
care:
Thro'
her
rags
do
the
winds
of
the
winter
blow
bleak
On
her
poor
withered
bosom
half
bare,
and
her
cheek
Has
the
deathy
pale
hue
of
despair.
III.
Yet
chearful
and
happy,
nor
distant
the
day,
Poor
Mary
the
Maniac
has
been;
The
Traveller
remembers
who
journeyed
this
way
No
damsel
so
lovely,
no
damsel
so
gay
As
Mary
the
Maid
of
the
Inn.
IV.
Her
chearful
address
fill'd
the
guests
with
delight
As
she
welcomed
them
in
with
a
smile:
Her
heart
was
a
stranger
to
childish
affright,
And
Mary
would
walk
by
the
Abbey
at
night
When
the
wind
whistled
down
the
dark
aisle.
V.
She
loved,
and
young
Richard
had
settled
the
day,
And
she
hoped
to
be
happy
for
life;
But
Richard
was
idle
and
worthless,
and
they
Who
knew
him
would
pity
poor
Mary
and
say
That
she
was
too
good
for
his
wife.
VI.
'Twas
in
autumn,
and
stormy
and
dark
was
the
night,
And
fast
were
the
windows
and
door;
Two
guests
sat
enjoying
the
fire
that
burnt
bright,
And
smoking
in
silence
with
tranquil
delight
They
listen'd
to
hear
the
wind
roar.
VII.
"Tis
pleasant,"
cried
one,
"seated
by
the
fire
side
"To
hear
the
wind
whistle
without."
"A
fine
night
for
the
Abbey!"
his
comrade
replied,
"Methinks
a
man's
courage
would
now
be
well
tried
"Who
should
wander
the
ruins
about.
VIII.
"I
myself,
like
a
school-boy,
should
tremble
to
hear
"The
hoarse
ivy
shake
over
my
head;
"And
could
fancy
I
saw,
half
persuaded
by
fear,
"Some
ugly
old
Abbot's
white
spirit
appear,
"For
this
wind
might
awaken
the
dead!"
IX.
"I'll
wager
a
dinner,"
the
other
one
cried,
"That
Mary
would
venture
there
now."
"Then
wager
and
lose!"
with
a
sneer
he
replied,
"I'll
warrant
she'd
fancy
a
ghost
by
her
side,
"And
faint
if
she
saw
a
white
cow."
X.
"Will
Mary
this
charge
on
her
courage
allow?"
His
companion
exclaim'd
with
a
smile;
"I
shall
win,
for
I
know
she
will
venture
there
now,
"And
earn
a
new
bonnet
by
bringing
a
bough
"From
the
elder
that
grows
in
the
aisle."
XI.
With
fearless
good
humour
did
Mary
comply,
And
her
way
to
the
Abbey
she
bent;
The
night
it
was
dark,
and
the
wind
it
was
high
And
as
hollowly
howling
it
swept
thro'
the
sky
She
shiver'd
with
cold
as
she
went.
XII.
O'er
the
path
so
well
known
still
proceeded
the
Maid
Where
the
Abbey
rose
dim
on
the
sight,
Thro'
the
gate-way
she
entered,
she
felt
not
afraid
Yet
the
ruins
were
lonely
and
wild,
and
their
shade
Seem'd
to
deepen
the
gloom
of
the
night.
XIII.
All
around
her
was
silent,
save
when
the
rude
blast
Howl'd
dismally
round
the
old
pile;
Over
weed-cover'd
fragments
still
fearless
she
past,
And
arrived
in
the
innermost
ruin
at
last
Where
the
elder
tree
grew
in
the
aisle.
XIV.
Well-pleas'd
did
she
reach
it,
and
quickly
drew
near
And
hastily
gather'd
the
bough:
When
the
sound
of
a
voice
seem'd
to
rise
on
her
ear,
She
paus'd,
and
she
listen'd,
all
eager
to
hear,
Aud
her
heart
panted
fearfully
now.
XV.
The
wind
blew,
the
hoarse
ivy
shook
over
her
head,
She
listen'd,—nought
else
could
she
hear.
The
wind
ceas'd,
her
heart
sunk
in
her
bosom
with
dread
For
she
heard
in
the
ruins
distinctly
the
tread
Of
footsteps
approaching
her
near.
XVI.
Behind
a
wide
column
half
breathless
with
fear
She
crept
to
conceal
herself
there:
That
instant
the
moon
o'er
a
dark
cloud
shone
clear,
And
she
saw
in
the
moon-light
two
ruffians
appear
And
between
them
a
corpse
did
they
bear.
XVII.
Then
Mary
could
feel
her
heart-blood
curdle
cold!
Again
the
rough
wind
hurried
by,—
It
blew
off
the
hat
of
the
one,
and
behold
Even
close
to
the
feet
of
poor
Mary
it
roll'd,—
She
felt,
and
expected
to
die.
XVIII.
"Curse
the
hat!"
he
exclaims.
"Nay
come
on
and
first
hide
"The
dead
body,"
his
comrade
replies.
She
beheld
them
in
safety
pass
on
by
her
side,
She
seizes
the
hat,
fear
her
courage
supplied,
And
fast
thro'
the
Abbey
she
flies.
XIX.
She
ran
with
wild
speed,
she
rush'd
in
at
the
door,
She
gazed
horribly
eager
around,
Then
her
limbs
could
support
their
faint
burthen
no
more,
And
exhausted
and
breathless
she
sunk
on
the
floor
Unable
to
utter
a
sound.
XX.
Ere
yet
her
pale
lips
could
the
story
impart,
For
a
moment
the
hat
met
her
view;—
Her
eyes
from
that
object
convulsively
start,
For—oh
God
what
cold
horror
then
thrill'd
thro'
her
heart,
When
the
name
of
her
Richard
she
knew!
XXI.
Where
the
old
Abbey
stands,
on
the
common
hard
by
His
gibbet
is
now
to
be
seen.
Not
far
from
the
road
it
engages
the
eye,
The
Traveller
beholds
it,
and
thinks
with
a
sigh
Of
poor
Mary
the
Maid
of
the
Inn.
