From rise of morne, till the pale stars

Again did freeke the skye.

When, harke! abroade she hearde the trampe

Of nimble-hoofed steed;

She hearde a knighte with clank alighte,

And climb the stair in speede.

And soon she herde a tinkling hande,
That twirled at the pin;

And thro' her door, that open'd not,

These words were breathed in.

What ho! what ho! thy dore undoe;

Art watching or asleepe?

My love, dost yet remember mee, And dost thou laugh or weep? ?'

'Ah! William, here so late at night!
Oh! I have watchte and wak'd:
Whence dost thou come? For thy return
My herte has sorely ak'd.'

At midnight only we may ride;
I come o'er land and sea:
I mounted late, but soon I go;
Aryse, and come with mee.'

'O William, enter first my bowre, And give me one embrace:

The blasts athwarte the hawthorn hiss;

Awayte a little space.'

'The blasts athwarte the hawthorn hiss,

I

may not harboure here;

My spurre is sharpe, my courser pawes,
My houre of flighte is nere.

'All as thou lyest upon thy couch,

Aryse, and mount behinde;

To-night we'le ride a thousand miles,

The bridal bed to finde.'

'How! ride to-night a thousand miles?

Thy love thou dost bemocke:

Eleven is the stroke that still

Rings on within the clocke.'

'Looke up; the moone is bright, and we Outstride the earthlie men :

I'll take thee to the bridal bed,
And night shall end but then.'

' And where is, then, thy house and home? And where thy bridal bed?' "Tis narrow, silent, chilly, dark; Far hence I rest my head.'

'And is there any room for mee,

Wherein that I may creepe?'

'There's room enough for thee and mee,

Wherein that wee may sleepe.

All as thou ly'st upon thy couch,
Aryse, no longer stop;

The wedding guests thy coming waite,

The chamber door is ope.'

All in her sarke, as there she lay,

Upon his horse she sprung;

And with her lily hands so pale
About her William clung.

And hurry-skurry forth they go,
Unheeding wet or dry;

And horse and rider snort and blow,
And sparkling pebbles fly.

How swift the flood, the mead, the wood,

Aright, aleft, are gone!

The bridges thunder as they pass,

But earthlie swoone is none.

Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede;

Splash, splash, across the see: 'Hurrah! the dead can ride apace:

Dost feare to ride with mee?

"The moone is bryghte, and blue the nyghte; Dost quake the blast to stem?

Dost shudder, mayde, to seek the dead?' 'No, no, but what of them?'

How glumlie sownes yon dirgye song!
Night-ravens flappe the wing.

What knell doth slowlie toll ding-dong?
The psalmes of death who sing?

'It creeps, the swarthie funeral traine,
The corse is onn the beere ;

Like croke of todes from lonely moors,
The chaunte doth meet the eere.

Go, bear her corse, when midnight's past,
With song, and tear, and wayle;

I've got my wife, I take her home,
My howre of wedlocke hayl.

Lead forth, O clarke, the chaunting quire, To swell our nuptial song:

Come, preaste, and reade the blessing soone; For bed, for bed we long.'

They heede his calle, and husht the sowne ;
The biere was seen no more;

And followde him ore feeld and flood
Yet faster than before.

Halloo! halloo! away they goe,
Unheeding wet or drye;

And horse and rider snort and blowe,
And sparkling pebbles flye.

How swifte the hill, how swifte the dale,

Aright, aleft, are gone?

By hedge and tree, by thorpe and towne,
They gallop, gallop on.

Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede;
Splash, splash, acrosse the see:
'Hurrah! the dead can ride apace;
Dost fear to ride with me?

'Look up, look up, an airy crewe

In roundel daunces reele:

The moone is bryghte, and blue the nyghte, Mayst dimlie see them wheele.

'Come to, come to, ye ghostlie crewe,
Come to, and follow mee,

And daunce for us the wedding daunce,
When we in bed shall be.'

And brush, brush, brush, the ghostlie crewe
Come wheeling ore their heads,
All rustling like the wither'd leaves
That wyde the wirlwind spreads.

Halloo! halloo! away they goe,
Unheeding wet or drye;

And horse and rider snort and blowe,
And sparkling pebbles flye.`

And all that in the moonshyne lay,
Behynde them fled afar;

And backwarde scudded overhead

The sky and every star.

Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede;

'I weene the cock prepares to crowe:
The sand will soon be runne;

I snuffe the earlye morning aire :
Downe, downe! our work is done.

The dead, the dead can ride apace!
Our wed-bed here is fit;

Oure race is ridde, our journey ore,
Our endlesse union knitt.'

And lo! an yren-grated gate

Soon biggens to their viewe:

He crackte his whyppe; the clangynge boltes, The doores asunder flewe.

They pass, and 'twas on graves they trode;

'Tis hither we are bounde :'