Twas at the middle hour of night; And though the moon gave her pale light, Oer the haunted wood a thick mist hung And the wind was howling its leaves among. In a cart along that way so wild A peasant was driving his wife and child. For the fairy folks thou needst fear not, They dance neath the moon on yon green spot. Should the screech-owl cry from yonder marsh Say a prayer, nor heed its voice so harsh. Whateer thou seest, be not afraid, But clasp the child, the faither said. Forward, old horse! Behind yon tree Our churchs steeple I can see. Get on! But hold, a moment stop-- The linch-pin is about to drop; Tis crackd--Ill cut a stick, my dear; Hold fast the child, and have no fear! An hour alone she might have sat, When a noise she heard--Oh, what is that? Lo! a coal-black hound! She sees and knows The werewolf! while his teeth he shows, And glares upon her child, she flings Her apron oer it as he springs. His sharp teeth bite it; but she cries To God for help, away he flies. Her arms the helpless babe enfold, She sits like a statue, pale and cold. But soon her husbands by her side, And onwards now they safely ride. Arrived at home, a light is brought; She starts, as with some horrid thought: What? Husband! husband! can these be Threads hanging from thy teeth I see? Thou art thyself a werewolf then! Thy words, he said, have set me free again! Anne S. Bushby
Posted on: Sun, 26 Oct 2014 07:43:41 +0000
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