Or shall I take but one?" Never an answer spake St Maur, And never a word he said: There was not one o' the mason men Looked half so wan and dead. The gipsy's ta'en the frighted child And set him in the wall: "There's a bonny game to play, little man, The bonniest game of all. "You'll stand so still and stark, my lad; I'll build in two's and three's; And I'll throw you a red, red apple in, When the stones reach to your knees. "You'll stand so still and stark, my lad; I'll lay the stones in haste; And I'll throw you the forester's whistle When they reach above your waist. "You'll stand so still and stark, my lad, You'll watch the stones that rise; And I'll throw you in your father's sword, When they reach above your eyes. "And if you tire o' the play, my lad, You've but to raise a shout: At the least word o' your father's mouth, I'll stop and pluck you out." The gipsy-man builds quick and light, As if he played a play, And the child laughs with a frighted laugh, And the tower ceases to sway. St Maur stares out of his bloodshot eyes, Like one that's well-nigh mad; The tower stands fast, and the stones rise high About the little lad. "O father, father, lift me out! The stones reach over my eyes, And I cannot see you now, father, So swift the walls uprise. "O father, lift me out, father! I cannot breathe at all, For the stones reach up beyond my head, And it's dark down i' the wall." But never an answer spake St Maur, Never a word but one: "Have you finished your devil's work, mason, Or when will the deed be done?" "Oh, the work is done that ye wished, St Maur, 'Twill last for many a year; There's scarce a sound in the wall by now A mother might not hear. "Gang home, gang home in peace, St Maur, And sleep sound if you can; There's never a flood shall rock this tower, And never a mortal man. "Gang home and kiss your bonny wife, And bid her mourn and fast... She'll weep a year for her youngest child, But she'll dry her eyes at last. "You'll say he fell in the flood, St Maur, But you'll not deceive yoursel', For you've lost the bonniest thing you had, And you'll remember well. "Your wife will mourn him a year, St Maur, You'll mourn him all your life, For you've lost the bonniest thing you had, Better than bairns or wife." -----A. M. F. Robinson (Darmesteter). [Illustration: 0149] [Illustration: 01;0] A BALLAD OF HELL |A letter from my love to-day! Oh, unexpected, dear appeal!" She struck a happy tear away And broke the crimson seal. "My love, there is no help on earth, No help in heaven; the dead man's bell Must toll our wedding; our first hearth Must be the well-paved floor of hell." The colour died from out her face,