Dame Jane the music mistress, the music mistress; Sharkie the baker of Black Horse Lane, At sound of a fiddle Caught her up by the middle-- And away like swallows from the lane, Flying out together-- From the crooked lane. What words said Sharkie to her, said Sharkie to her? How did she look in the lane? No neighbour heard One sigh or one word, Not a sound but the fiddling in Black Horse Lane, The happy noise of music-- Again and again. Where now be those two old 'uns, be those two old 'uns, Sharkie the baker run off with Jane? Hark ye up to Flint Street, Halloo to Pepper-Mint Street, Follow by the fells to the great North Plain, By the fells and the river-- To the cold North Plain. How came this passion to them, this passion to them, Love in a freshet on Black Horse Lane? It came without warning One blue windy morning So they scarcely might know was it joy or pain, With scarce breath to wonder-- Was it joy or pain. Took they no fardels with them, no fardels with them, Out and alone on the ice-bound plain? Sharkie he had rockets And crackers in his pockets, Ay, and she had a plaid shawl to keep off the rain, An old Highland plaid shawl-- To keep off the rain. RETURN The seven years' curse is ended now That drove me forth from this kind land, From mulberry-bough and apple bough And gummy twigs the west-wind shakes, To drink the brine from crusted lakes And grit my teeth on sand. The load that from my shoulder slips Straightway upon your own is tied, You, too, shall scorch your finger-tips, With scrabbling on the desert's face Such thoughts I had for this green place, Sent scapegoat for your pride. Now for your cold, malicious brain And most uncharitable, cold heart, You, too, shall clank the seven years' chain On sterile ground for all time curst With famine's itch and flames of thirst, The blank sky's counterpart. Here, Robin on a tussock sits, And Cuckoo with his call of hope Cuckoos awhile, then off he flits, While peals of dingle-dongle keep Troop discipline among the sheep That graze across the slope. A brook from fields of gentle sun, Through the glade his water heaves, The falling cone would well-nigh stun That squirrel wantonly lets drop, When up he scampers to tree-top, And dives among the green. Yet, no, I ask a wider peace Than peace your heart could comprehend, More ample than my own release; Go, be you loosed from your right fate, Go with forgiveness and no hate; Here let the story end. INCUBUS