Back from the battle at the close of day,
(Buie, Buie, Buie Annajohn!)
Came with the war cheers, came with a neigh,
Buie Annajohn,
The young king’s own. 
Oh, heavy was the sword that we laid on;
But half of the heave was Buie Annajohn,
Buie, Buie, Buie Annajohn!

MARY OF MARKA.

Eric of Marka holds the knife: 
“A nameless death for a nameless life.”—­

“Mary of Marka, bid him stay,
And the morrow shall be our wedding-day.”—­

“Will the blessing of priest give back my faith,
Or life to the child you left to death?”—­

Eric of Marka holds the knife,
And turns to the mother that is no wife: 

“Mary of Marka, have your will! 
Shall I spare him, or shall I kill?”—­

“He wrought me wrong when the days were sweet,
And he’ll get no more but a winding-sheet.”

PREMONITION.

He said, “Good-night, my heart is light,
To-morrow morn at day
We two together in the dew
Shall forth and fare away.

“We shall go down, the halls of dawn
To find the doors of joy;
We shall not part again, dear heart.” 
And he laughed out like a boy.

He turned and strode down the blue road
Against the western sky
Where the last line of sunset glowed
As sullen embers die.

The night reached out her kraken arms
To clutch him as he passed,
And for one sudden moment
My soul shrank back aghast.

THE HEARSE-HORSE.

Said the hearse-horse to the coffin,
“What the devil have you there? 
I may trot from court to square,
Yet it neither swears nor groans,
When I jolt it over stones.” 
Said the coffin to the hearse-horse,
“Bones!”

Said the hearse-horse to the coffin,
“What the devil have you there,
With that purple frozen stare? 
Where the devil has it been
To get that shadow grin?”
Said the coffin to the hearse-horse,
“Skin!”

Said the hearse-horse to the coffin,
“What the devil have you there? 
It has fingers, it has hair;
Yet it neither kicks nor squirms
At the undertaker’s terms.” 
Said the coffin to the hearse-horse,
“Worms!”

THE NIGHT-WASHERS.

Whe-ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh! 
We are the brothers of ghouls, and who
In the name of the Crooked Saints are you?

We are the washers of shrouds wherein
The lovers of beauty who sainted sin
Sleep till the Judgment Day begin.

When the moon is drifting overhead,
We wash the linen of the dead,
Stained with yellow and stiff with red.

Whe-ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh! 
We are the foul night-washers, and who,
By the Seven Lovely sins are you?