She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad :
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
- Her beauty made me glad.
"Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all," she said, And wondering look'd at me.
"And where are they? I
She answer'd, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.
"Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."
"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven! - I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be."
Then did the little maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree."
"You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five."
"Their graves are green; they may be seen," The little maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door; And they are side by side.
My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit-
I sit and sing to them.
"And often after sun-set, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.
"The first that died was little Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain ;
And then she went away.
"So in the church-yard she was laid;
And when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.
"And when the ground was white with snow
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."
"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in Heaven?" The little maiden did reply,
"O Master! we are seven.'
"But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in Heaven!"
"T was throwing words away: for still The little maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!"
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea
The ship was still as she could be;
Her sails from heaven received no motion,
Her keel was steady in the ocean.
Without either sign or sound of their shock,
The waves flowed over the Inchcape rock;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape bell.
The Abbot of Aberbrothok
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock:
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,
And o'er the waves its warning rung.
When the Rock was hid by the surges' swell,
The mariners heard the warning bell;
And then they knew the perilous rock,
And bless'd the Abbot of Aberbrothok.
The sun in heaven was shining gay,
All things were joyful on that day;
The sea birds scream'd as they wheel'd round,
And there was joyance in their sound.
The buoy of the Inchcape Rock was seen,
A darker speck on the ocean green:
Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck,
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.
He felt the cheering power of spring;
It made him whistle, it made him sing;
His heart was mirthful to excess,
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.
His eye was on the Inchcape float;
Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat,
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok."
The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
And he cut the bell of the Inchcape float.
Down sunk the bell with a gurgling sound;
The bubbles rose and burst around;
Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the Rock Will bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok.”
Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away;
He scour'd the seas for many a day;
And now grown rich with plunder'd store,
He steers his course for Scotland's shore.
So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky
They cannot see the sun on high;
The wind hath blown a gale all day,
At evening it hath died away.
On the deck the Rover takes his stand,
So dark it is they see no land;
Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising moon.”
"Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar?
For methinks we should be near the shore."
"Now where we are I cannot tell,
But I wish we could hear the Inchcape bell."
They hear no sound, the swell is strong; Though the wind hath fallen they drift along, Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock:"The Rock! it is the Inchape Rock!"
Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair;
He cursed himself in his despair;
The waves rush in on every side,
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.
But even in his dying fear
One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,-
A sound as if with the Inchcape bell
The fiends below were ringing his knell.
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