THE LEGEND OF MANOR HALL. Ο [Published in 1861 (Bentley's Ballads)]. LD Farmer Wall, of Manor Hall, Along the road it went well stowed His station he took, but in vain did he look Though the farmers all, save Farmer Wall, Then home he went, sore discontent, And he kicked up rows with his children and spouse, Next market-day, he drove away No bidder he found, and he stood astound At the close of the market-day, When the market was done, and the chapmen were gone, Each man his several way. He stalked by his load, along the road; His face with wrath was red: His arms he tossed, like a goodman crossed His face was red, and fierce was his tread, "My corn I'll sell to the devil of hell, These words he spoke, just under an oak, Seven hundred winters old; And he straight was aware of a man sitting there, The roots rose high, o'er the greensward dry,' All scorched was the spot, as gypsy pot The grass was marred, the roots were charred, The stranger up sprung: to the farmer he flung And he said, "I see well, thou hast corn to sell, And I'll buy it on the nail." The twain in a trice agreed on the price; The stranger his earnest paid, And with horses and wain, to come for the grain, His own appointment made. The farmer cracked his whip, and tracked His way right merrily on : He struck up a song, as he trudged along, His children fair he danced in the air; He kissed his wife; he seized a knife; The faggots burned, the porkling turned And crackled before the fire; And an odour arose, that was sweet in the nose Of a passing ghostly friar. He tirled at the pin, he entered in, He sate down at the board; The pig he blessed, when he saw it well dressed, And the humming ale outpoured. The friar laughed, the friar quaffed, The farmer told, how his corn he had sold, As he journeyed home that day. The friar he quaffed, but no longer he laughed, He changed from red to pale: "Oh, hapless elf! 'tis the fiend himself, To whom thou hast made thy sale." The friar he quaffed, he took a deep draught; He crossed himself amain; "Oh, slave of pelf, 'tis the devil himself, "And, sure as the day, he'll fetch thee away, The farmer gave vent to a loud lament, Their relish for pig and ale was flown; The friar was gone: the morning dawn The horses were black: on their dewy track, More dark and grim, in face and limb, As his empty wain, with steeds thrice twain, On the stranger's face was a sly grimace, He tossed them on the wain. And slyly he leered, as his hand upreared Where bright and fresh, through a silver mesh, The farmer held out his right hand stout, His eye was set on the silver net; His thoughts were in fearful strife; And, swift as thought, the stranger caught And at once the twain, and the loaded wain, The gable-end wall of Manor Hall The wife gave a cry that rent the sky, But she held the purse fast, and a glance she cast "Twas the fiend's full pay for her goodman gray, Which made her declare that "his dealings were fair, To give the devil his due." She wore the black pall for Farmer Wall, From her fond embraces riven: But she won the vows of a younger spouse, Now, farmers beware, what oaths you swear, And with good heed, the moral a-read, If your corn you sell to the fiend of hell, And if by mishap, you fall in the trap,— NEWARK ABBEY, On the Wey, near Chertsey, Surrey. [Written in 1842: with a reminiscence of August, 1807; Published in Fraser in 1860.] I GAZE where August's sunbeam falls For all too well my spirit feels い |