The Fetch
‘What makes you so late at the trysting?
What caused you so long to be?
For a weary time I have waited
From the hour you promised me.’
‘I would I were here by your side, love,
Full many an hour ago,
For a thing I passed on the roadway
All mournful and so slow.’
‘And what have you passed on the roadside
That kept you so long and late?’
‘It is weary the time behind me
Since I left my father’s gate.
‘As I hastened on in the gloaming
By the road to you to-night,
There I saw the corpse of a young maid
All clad in a shroud of white.’
‘And was she some comrade cherished,
Or was she a sister dead,
That you left thus your own beloved
Till the trysting-hour had fled?’
‘Oh, I would that I could discover.
But never did see her face,
And I knew I must turn and follow
Till I came to her resting place.’
‘And did it go up by the town path,
Did it go down by the lake?
I know there are but the two churchyards
Where a corpse its rest may take.’
‘They did not go up by the town path,
Nor stopped by the lake their feet,
They buried the corpse all silently
Where the four cross-roads do meet.’
‘And was it so strange a sight, then,
That you should go like a child,
Thus to leave me wait all forgotten—
By a passing sight beguiled?’
‘Twas my name that I heard them whisper,
Each mourner that passed by me;
And I had to follow their footsteps,
Though their faces I could not see.’
‘And right well I should like to know, now,
Who might be this fair young maid,
So come with me, my own true love,
If you be not afraid.’
He did not go down by the lakeside,
He did not go by the town,
But carried her to the four cross-roads,
And he there did set her down.
‘Now, I see no track of a foot here,
I see no mark of a spade,
And I know right well in this white road
That never a grave was made.’
And he took her hand in his right hand
And led her to town away,
And there he questioned the good old priest,
Did he bury a maid that day.
And he took her hand in his right hand,
Down to the church by the lake,
And there he questioned the pale young priest
If a maiden her life did take.
But neither had heard of a new grave
In all the parish around,
And no one could tell of a young maid
Thus put in unholy ground.
So he loosed her hand from his hand,
And turned on his heel away,
And, ‘I know now you are false,’ he said,
‘From the lie you told to-day.’
And she said, ‘Alas! what evil thing
Did to-night my senses take?’
She knelt her down by the water-side
And wept as her heart would break.
And she said, ‘Oh, what fairy sight then
Was it thus my grief to see?
I will sleep well ’neath the still water,
Since my love has turned from me.’
And her love he went to the north land,
And far to the south went he,
And her distant voice he still could hear
Call weeping so bitterly.
And he could not rest in the daytime,
He could not sleep in the night,
So he hastened back to the old road,
With the trysting place in sight.
What first he heard was his own love’s name,
And keening both loud and long,
What first he saw was his love’s dear face,
At the head of a mourning throng.
And all white she was as the dead are,
And never a move made she,
But passed him by in her lone black pall,
Still sleeping so peacefully.
And all cold she was as the dead are,
And never a word she spake,
When they said, ‘Unholy is her grave
For she her life did take.’
And silent she was as the dead are,
And never a cry she made,
When there came, more sad than the keening,
The ring of a digging spade.
No rest she had in the old town church,
No grave by the lake so sweet,
They buried her in unholy ground,
Where the four cross roads do meet.
