Lays and Legends of the English Lake Country. White John White

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      The widows were sitting in Threlkeld Hall;

      The corn stood green on Midsummer-day;

      Their little grand-children were tossing the ball;

      And the farmers leaned over the garden wall;

      And the widows were spinning the eve away.

      They busily talk'd of the days long gone,

      While the corn stood green on Midsummer-day;

      How old Sir Lancelot's armour had shone

      On the panels of oak by the broad hearthstone,

      Where the widows sat spinning that eve away.

      For, Threlkeld Hall of his mansions three—

      Where the corn stood green on Midsummer-day—

      Was his noblest house; and a stately tree

      Was the good old Knight, and of high degree;

      And a braver rode never in battle array.

      Now peaceful farmers think of their corn—

      The corn so green on Midsummer-day—

      Where once, at the blast of Sir Lancelot's horn,

      His horsemen all mustered, his banner was borne;

      And he went like a Chief in his pride to the fray.

      And there the good Clifford, the Shepherd-Lord,

      When the corn stood green on Midsummer-day,

      Sat, humbly clad, at Sir Lancelot's board;

      And tended the flocks, while rusted his sword

      In the hall where the widows were spinning away;

      Till the new King called him back to his own—

      When the corn stood green on Midsummer-day—

      To his honours and name of high renown;

      When Sir Lancelot old and feeble had grown;

      From his rude shepherd-life called Lord Clifford away.

      And sad was that morrow in Threlkeld Hall—

      And the corn was green on that Midsummer-day—

      When the Clifford stood ready to part from all;

      And his shepherd's staff was hung up on the wall,

      In that room where the widows sat spinning away.

      And Sir Lancelot mounted, and called his men—

      While the corn stood green on Midsummer-day—

      And he gazed on Lord Clifford again and again;

      And Sir Lancelot rode with him over the plain;

      And at length with strong effort his silence gave way.

      "I am old," Sir Lancelot said; "and I know—

      When the corn stands green on Midsummer-day—

      There will wars arise, and I shall be low,

      Who ever was ready to arm and go!"—

      For he loved the war tramp and the martial array.

      "If ever a Knight might revisit this earth—

      While the corn stands green on Midsummer-day"—

      Said the Clifford—"When troubles and wars have birth,

      Thou never shalt fail from Threlkeld's hearth!"

      From that hearth where the widows were spinning away.

      And so, along Souther Fell-side they press'd—

      While the corn stood green on Midsummer-day,—

      And then they parted—to east and to west—

      And Sir Lancelot came and was laid to his rest.

      Said the widows there spinning the eve away.

      And the Shepherd had power in unwritten lore:

      The corn stands green on Midsummer-day:

      And although the Knight's coffin his banner hangs o'er,

      Sir Lancelot yet can tread this floor;

      Said the widows there spinning the eve away.—

      Thus gossip'd the widows in Threlkeld Hall,

      While the corn stood green on Midsummer-day:

      When the sound of a footstep was heard to fall,

      And an arm'd shadow pass'd over the wall—

      Of a Knight with his plume and in martial array.

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