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How does my Lady's garden grow?

With silver bells, and cockle-shells, And pretty girls all in a row.

All fresh and fair, as the spring is fair, And wholly unconscious they are so fair, With eyes as deep as the wells of sleep, And mouths as fragrant as sweet June air.

They all have crowns and all have wings, Pale silver crowns and faint green wings, And each has a wand within her hand, And raiment about her that cleaves and clings.

But what have my Lady's girls to do?

What maiden toil or spinning to do?

They swing and sway the live-long day While beams and dreams shift to and fro.

And are so still that one forgets, So calm and restful, one forgets To think it strange they never change, Mistaking them for Margarets.

But when night comes and Earth is dumb, When her face is veil'd, and her voice is dumb, The pretty girls rouse from their summer drowse, For the time of their magic toil has come.

They deck themselves in their bells and shells, Their silver bells and their cockle-shells, Like pilgrim elves, they deck themselves And chaunting Runic hymns and spells,

They spread their faint green wings abroad, Their wings and clinging robes abroad, And upward through the pathless blue They soar, like incense smoke, to God.

Who gives them crystal dreams to hold, And snow-white hopes and thoughts to hold, And laughter spun of beams of the sun, And tears that shine like molten-gold.

And when their hands can hold no more, Their chaliced hands can hold no more, And when their bells, and cockle-shells, With holy gifts are brimming o'er,

With swift glad wings they cleave the deep, As shafts of starlight cleave the deep, Through Space and Night they take their flight To where my Lady lies asleep;

And there, they coil above her bed,-- A fairy crown above her bed-- While from their hands, like sifted sands, Falls their harvest winnowed.

And this is why my Lady grows, My own sweet Lady daily grows, In sorcery such, that at her touch, Sweet laughter blossoms and songs unclose.

And this is what the pretty girls do, This is the toil appointed to do, With silver bells, and cockle-shells, Like Margarets all in a row.

LITTLE BLUE BETTY

[From the same]

Little Blue Betty lived in a lane, She sold good ale to gentlemen.

Gentlemen came every day, And little Blue Betty hopp'd away.

A rare old tavern, this "Hand and Glove,"

That Little Blue Betty was mistress of; But rarer still than its far-famed taps Were Betty's trim ankles and dainty caps.

So gentlemen came every day-- As much for the caps as the ale, they say-- And call'd for their pots, and her mug to boot: If it bettered their thirst they were welcome to't;

For Betty, with none of those foolish qualms Which come of inordinate singing of psalms, Thought kissing a practice both hearty and hale, To freshen the lips and smarten the ale.

So gallants came, by the dozen and score, To sit on the bench by the trellised door, From the full high noon till the shades grew long, With their pots of ale, and snatches of song.

While little Blue Betty, in shortest of skirts, And whitest of caps, and bluest of shirts, Went hopping away, rattling pots and pence, Getting kiss'd now and then as pleased Providence.

How well I remember! I used to sit down By the door, with Byronic, elaborate frown Staring hard at her, as she whisk'd about me,-- Being jealous as only calf-lovers can be,

Till Betty would bring me my favourite mug, Her lips all a-pucker, her shoulders a-shrug, And wheedle and coax my young vanity back, So I fancied myself the preferred of the pack.

Ah! the dear old times! I turn'd out of my way, As I travell'd westward the other day, For a ramble among those boy-haunts of mine, And a friendly nod to the crazy old sign.

The inn was gone--to make room, alas!

For a railroad buffet, all gilding and glass, Where sat a proper young person in pink, Selling ale--which I hadn't the heart to drink.

THE OLD WOMAN UNDER THE HILL

[From the same]

There was an old woman lived under the hill, And if she's not gone, she lives there still; Baked apples she sold and cranberry pies, And she's the old woman who never told lies.

A queer little body, all shrivelled and brown, In her earth-colour'd mantle and rain-colour'd gown, Incessantly fumbling strange grasses and weeds, Like a rickety cricket, a-saying its beads.

In winter or summer, come shine or come rain, When the bustles and beams into twilight wane, To the top of her hill, one can see her climb, To sit out her watch through the long night-time.

The neighbourhood gossips have strange tales to tell-- As they sit at their knitting and tongues waggle well Of the queer little crone who lived under the hill When the grannies among them were hoppy-thumbs still.

She was once, they say, a young lassie, as fair As white-wing'd hawthorn in April air, When under the hill--one fine evening--she met A stranger, the strangest maid ever saw yet:

From his crown to his heels he was clad all in red, And his hair like a flame on his shoulders was shed; Not a word spake he, but clutching her hand, Led her off through the darkness to Shadowland.

What befell her there no mortal can tell, But it must have been things indescribable, For when she returned, at last, alone, Her beauty was dead, and her youth was gone.

They gather'd about her: she shook her head --She had been through Hell--that was all she said In answer to whens, and hows, and whys; So they took her word, for she never told lies.

And now, they say, when the sun goes down This queer little woman, all shrivell'd and brown Turns into a beautiful lass, once more, With gold-stranded hair and soft eyes of yore,

And out of the hills in the stills and the gloams Her beautiful fabulous lover comes, In scarlet doublet and red silken hose, To woo her again--till the Chanticleer crows.

And she, poor old crone, sits up on her hill Through the long dreary night, till the dawn turns chill, And suffers in silence and patience alway, In the hope that God will forgive, some day.

MARGERY DAW

[From the same]

See-Saw! Margery Daw!

Sold her bed to lie upon straw; Was she not a dirty slut To sell her bed, and live in dirt?

And yet perchance, were the circumstance But known, of Margery's grim romance, As sacred a veil might cover her then As the pardon which fell on the Magdalen.

It's a story told so often, so old, So drearily common, so wearily cold: A man's adventure,--a poor girl's fall-- And a sinless scapegoat born--that's all.

She was simple and young, and the song was sung With so sweet a voice, in so strange a tongue, That she follow'd blindly the Devil-song Till the ground gave way, and she lay headlong.

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