The Haunted Hour eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 165 pages of information about The Haunted Hour.

  They cleek aff thegither,
And then fa’ back, wi’ room atween
For ane to walk; sae aften, I hae seen
  The baith cleek aff thegither
          Wi’ ane atween!

  And when toward the pines
Up yonder lane they loup alang
I see ae laddie brent and strang,
  I see ae laddie loup alang
          Toward the pines.

  I follow them in mind
Ilk time; right weel I ken the way,—­
They thrid the wood, an’ speel the staney brae
  An’ skir the field; I follow them,
          I ken the way.

  They daddle at the creek,
Whaur down fra aff the reachin’-logs
I stoup, wi’ my dear laddie, and the dogs,
  An’ drink o’ springs that spait the creek
          Maist to the logs.

  He’s but a bairn, atho’
He hunts the mountain’s lonely bree,
His doggies’ ears abune their brows wi’ glee
  He ties; he’s but a bairn, atho’
          He hunts the bree.

  Fu’ length they a’ stretch out
Upon ae bink that green trees hap
In shade.  He whusslits saft; the beagles nap
  Wi’ een half shut, a stretchin’ out
          Whaur green trees hap.

  And noo he fades awa’
Frae ’tween the twa—­into the blue. 
My sight gats blind; gude Lord, it isna true
  That he has gane for aye awa
          Into the blue!

  They are my laddie’s hounds
That mak the hill at fa’ o’ day
Wi’ dowie heads hung laigh; can ony say
  Wha is it hunts my laddie’s hounds
          Till fa’ o day?


The boys who used to come and go
  In the grey kindly house are flown. 
They have taken the way the young feet know;
  Not alone, not alone! 
Thronged is the road the young feet go.

Yet in the quiet evening hour
  What comes, oh, lighter than a bird? 
Touches her cheek, soft as a flower. 
  What moved, what stirred? 
What was the joyous whisper heard?

What flitted in the corridor
  Like a boy’s shape so dear and slight? 
What was the laughter ran before? 
  Delicate, light,
Like harps the wind plays out of sight.

The boys who used to go and come
  In the grey house are come again;
Of the grey house and firelit room
  They are fain, they are fain: 
They have come home from the night and rain.



In a winter’s dream, on Gamellyn moor,
I found the lost grave of Lord Glyndwr.

I followed three shadows against the moon,
That marched while the thin reed whistled the tune,

Three swordsmen they were out of Harry’s wars,
That made a Welsh song of their Norman scars,

But they sang no longer of Agincourt,
When they came to a grave, for there lay Glyndwr.

Said the one, “My sword, th’art rust, my dear,
I but brought thee home to break thee here.”

Project Gutenberg
The Haunted Hour from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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