Original

Twas good St John's, and the mountain woods

Were gay with summer sheen,

A mother wept for her little Willie,

All in his grave so green.

'Twas Yule, and on the mountain-side

The wind was shrill and cold;

The mother wept for her little Willie,

Who lay within the mould.

O cold, cold is a winter grave,

O but a shroud is thin—

A wee hand tapp'd upon the door,

"O mother, let me in."

"I dare not let thee in, Willie,"

The sister up and said,

"For mother's away at Jane's lykewake,—

Go to thy graveyard bed."

"O cold and lonely is the night,

Madly the fierce winds rave;

How should I sleep?—The shroud is wet

That wraps me in the grave."

She sign'd the cross upon her brow,

The cross upon her breast,

With:—"Avoid thee, ghost, and aroint thee,

ghost,

And get thee to thy rest."

'Twas midnight, brightly glow'd the hearth,

The wind howl'd down the lin;

A wee hand tapp'd upon the door,

"O mother, let me in."

Up sprung the father to his feet,

And many a cross sign'd he,

With:—"Angels defend us from thee, child,

And from the like of thee."

"O cold, cold is the winter snow,

That drifts adown the steep,

But colder far this clammy shroud

Which will not let me sleep."

The wind had swept away the clouds,

But still its laugh was wild;

Before the father slept, he pray'd

The saints to ban his child.

Ah! who shall help a houseless soul?

What refuge shall it win?

Again the hand tapp'd on the door:

"O mother, let me in."

Quick was her ear to catch the cry,

Her foot upon the floor,

Her hand to draw away the bolt,

And open wide the door.

"Come in, come in, thou child of mine,

Right welcome unto me,

Come in, and warm thee in the breast

That erewhile suckled thee."

She took him up within her arms

Or ere a word was said,

She set him down before the hearth,

All wan and damp and dead.

"Cold was the snow that beat on me,

The grave that let me out,

O take away this wet wet shroud

That wraps me round about.

"Your tears fall on my face, mother,

Your tears fall on my feet,

Your tears drip through the coffin-lid

Upon my winding-sheet.

"Now weep no more for me, mother,

It lets me in my rest,

But wrap me in another shroud

And warm me in thy breast."

The sister peep'd from out her bed,

Her face was pale with fear,—

"O mother, give him nought of mine

Or I shall die this year."

Original

Out spoke the father from his bed,

Harsh was his voice and wild,—

"O woman, take not aught of mine,

To wrap about the child."

A strange strange smile was on her lips,

But ne'er a word she said;

Her best seem'd hardly good enough

To wrap around the dead.

She bore him to and fro, and sang

Old songs and lullabies;

He laid his hands upon her cheeks

And smiled into her eyes.

'Twas good St John's, and the mountain woods

Were gay with summer sheen,

The mother slept with her little Willie

All in the grave so green.

——Charles Grant.