O the Gosherd he wandered till twilight gray Was throwing its mists around him; But the gander seemed farther and farther astray-- For the Gosherd had not yet found him. So the Gosherd, foredeeming his search in vain, Resolved no farther to wander; But to Croyland he turned him, in dudgeon, again, Sore fretting at heart for the gander. Thus he footed the fens so dreary and dern, While his brain, like the sky, was dark'ning; And with dread to the scream o' the startled hern And the bittern's boom he was heark'ning. But when the Gosherd the church-yard reached,-- Forefearing the dead would be waking,-- Like a craven upon the sward he stretched, And could travel no farther for quaking! And there the Gosherd lay through the night, Not daring to rise and go further: For, in sooth, the Gosherd beheld a sight That frighted him more than murther! From the old church clock the midnight hour In hollow tones was pealing, When a slim white ghost to the church porch door Seemed up the footpath stealing! Stark staring upon the sward lay the clown, And his heart went "pitter patter,"-- Till the ghost in the clay-cold grave sunk down,-- When he felt in a twitter-twatter! Soon--stretching aloft its long white arms-- From the grave the ghost was peeping!-- Cried the Gosherd, "Our Lady defend me from harms, And Saint Guthlacke[15] have me in his keeping!" The white ghost hissed!--the Gosherd swooned! In the morn,--on the truth 'tis no slander,-- Near the church porch door a new grave he found, And, therein, the white ghost--his stray gander! * * * * * The Gosherd, scarce, his mirthful meed Had won, ere Tibbald of Stow,-- With look as pert as the pouncing glede When he eyeth the chick below,-- Scraped his crowd, And clear and loud, As the merle-cock shrill, Or the bell from the hill, Thus tuned his throat to his rough sire's praise-- His sire the swineherd of olden days:-- The Swineherd's Song. I sing of a swineherd, in Lindsey, so bold, Who tendeth his flock in the wide forest-fold: He sheareth no wool from his snouted sheep: He soweth no corn, and none he doth reap: Yet the swineherd no lack of good living doth know: Come jollily trowl The brown round bowl, Like the jovial swineherd of Stow! He hedgeth no meadows to fatten his swine: He renteth no joist for his snorting kine: They rove through the forest, and browse on the mast,-- Yet, he lifteth his horn, and bloweth a blast, And they come at his call, blow he high, blow he low!-- Come, jollily trowl The brown round bowl, And drink to the swineherd of Stow!