* * * * * There was a farmer on the wold Where all the brooks begin, He had a thousand sheep from fold Out grazing on the whin. The next night, as he lay in bed, He heard a canterer come Trampling the wold-top with a tread That sounded like a drum. He thought it was a post that rode, So turned him to his sleep; But the canterer in his dream abode Like horse-hoofs running sheep. And in his dreams a horn was blown And feathering hounds replied, And all his wethers stood like stone In rank on the hillside. Then, while he struggled still with dreams, He saw his wethers run Before a pack cheered on with screams, The thousand sheep as one. So, leaping from his bed in fear, He flung the window back, And he heard a death-horn blowing clear And the crying of a pack, And the thundering of a thousand sheep, All mad and running wild To the stone-pit seven fathoms deep, Whence all the town is tiled. After them came the hounds of hell, With hell’s own fury filled; Into the pit the wethers fell, And all but three were killed. The hunter blew his horn a note And laughed against the moon; The farmer’s breath caught in his throat, He fell into a swoon. * * * * * The next night when the watch was set A heavy rain came down, The leaden gutters dripped with wet Into the shuttered town. So close the shutters were, the chink Of lamplight scarcely showed; The men at fireside heard no clink Of horse-hoofs on the road. They heard the creaking hinge complain, And the mouse that gnawed the floor, And the limping footsteps of the rain On the stone outside the door. And on the wold the rain came down Till trickles streakt the grass: A traveller riding to the town Drew rein to let it pass. The wind sighed in the fir-tree tops, The trickles sobb’d in the grass, The branches ran with showers of drops: No other noise there was. Till up the wold the traveller heard A horn blow faint and thin; He thought it was the curlew bird Lamenting to the whin; And when the far horn blew again, He thought an owl hallooed, Or a rabbit gave a shriek of pain As the stoat leapt in the wood. But when the horn blew next, it blew A trump that split the air, And hounds gave cry to an Halloo! The hunt of hell was there. “Black” (said the traveller), “black and swift, Those running devils came; Scoring to cry with hackles stifft, And grin-jowls dropping flame.” They settled to the sightless scent, And up the hill a cry Told where the frightened quarry went, Well knowing it would die.