Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor
visitor, and his wife to keep him eating, till I thought there would be
no end of it.
Then having eaten all they could, they prepared themselves, with one
accord, for the business now of drinking. But first they lifted the neck
of corn, dressed with ribbons gaily, and set it upon the mantelpiece,
each man with his horn a-froth; and then they sang a song about it,
every one shouting in the chorus louder than harvest thunderstorm. Some
were in the middle of one verse, and some at the end of the next one;
yet somehow all managed to get together in the mighty roar of the
burden. And if any farmer up the country would like to know Exmoor
harvest-song as sung in my time and will be sung long after I am
garnered home, lo, here I set it down for him, omitting only the
dialect, which perchance might puzzle him.
EXMOOR HARVEST-SONG
1
The corn, oh the corn, 'tis the ripening of the corn!
Go unto the door, my lad, and look beneath the moon,
Thou canst see, beyond the woodrick, how it is yelloon:
'Tis the harvesting of wheat, and the barley must be shorn.
(Chorus)
The corn, oh the corn, and the yellow, mellow corn!
Here's to the corn, with the cups upon the board!
We've been reaping all the day, and we'll reap again the morn
And fetch it home to mow-yard, and then we'll thank the Lord.
2
The wheat, oh the wheat, 'tis the ripening of the wheat!
All the day it has been hanging down its heavy head,
Bowing over on our bosoms with a beard of red:
'Tis the harvest, and the value makes the labour sweet.
(Chorus)
The wheat, oh the wheat, and the golden, golden wheat!
Here's to the wheat, with the loaves upon the board!
We've been reaping all the day, and we never will be beat
And fetch it all to mow-yard, and then we'll thank the Lord.
3
The barley, oh the barley, and the barley is in prime!
All the day it has been rustling, with its bristles brown,
Waiting with its beard abowing, till it can be mown!
'Tis the harvest and the barley must abide its time.
(Chorus)
The barley, oh the barley, and the barley ruddy brown!
Here's to the barley, with the beer upon the board!
We'll go amowing, soon as ever all the wheat is down;
When all is in the mow-yard, we'll stop, and thank the Lord.
4
The oats, oh the oats, 'tis the ripening of the oats!
All the day they have been dancing with their flakes of white,
Waiting for the girding-hook, to be the nags' delight:
'Tis the harvest, let them dangle in their skirted coats.
(Chorus)
The oats, oh the oats, and the silver, silver oats!
Here's to the oats with the blackstone on the board!
We'll go among them, when the barley has been laid in rotes:
When all is home to mow-yard, we'll kneel and thank the Lord.
5
The corn, oh the corn, and the blessing of the corn!
Come unto the door, my lads, and look beneath the moon,
We can see, on hill and valley, how it is yelloon,
With a breadth of glory, as when our Lord was born.
(Chorus)
The corn, oh the corn, and the yellow, mellow corn!
Thanks for the corn, with our bread upon the board!
So shall we acknowledge it, before we reap the morn,
With our hands to heaven, and our knees unto the Lord.
Now we sang this song very well the first time, having the parish choir
to lead us, and the clarionet, and the parson to give us the time with
his cup; and we sang it again the second time, not so but what you might
praise it (if you had been with us all the evening), although the parson
was gone then, and the clerk not fit to compare with him in the matter
of keeping time. But when that song was in its third singing, I defy any
man (however sober) to have made out one verse from the other, or even
the burden from the verses, inasmuch as every man present, ay, and woman
too, sang as became convenient to them, in utterance both of words and
tune.
And in truth, there was much excuse for them; because it was a noble
harvest, fit to thank the Lord for, without His thinking us hypocrites.
For we had more land in wheat, that year, than ever we had before,
and twice the crop to the acre; and I could not help now and then
remembering, in the midst of the merriment, how my father in the
churchyard yonder would have gloried to behold it. And my mother, who
had left us now, happening to return just then, being called to have her
health drunk (for the twentieth time at least), I knew by the sadness
in her eyes that she was thinking just as I was. Presently, therefore,
I slipped away from the noise, and mirth, and smoking (although of that
last there was not much, except from Farmer Nicholas), and crossing the
courtyard in the moonlight, I went, just to cool myself, as far as my
father's tombstone.
CHAPTER XXX
ANNIE GETS THE BEST OF IT
I had long outgrown unwholesome feeling as to my father's death, and
so had Annie; though Lizzie (who must have loved him least) still
entertained some evil will, and longing for a punishment. Therefore I
was surprised (and indeed, startled would not be too much to say,
the moon being somewhat fleecy), to see our Annie sitting there as
motionless as the tombstone, and with all her best fallals upon her,
after stowing away the dishes.
My nerves, however, are good and strong, except at least in love
matters, wherein they always fail me, and when I meet with witches; and
therefore I went up to Annie, although she looked so white and pure;
for I had seen her before with those things on, and it struck me who she
was.
“What are you doing here, Annie?” I inquired rather sternly, being vexed
with her for having gone so very near to frighten me.
“Nothing at all,” said our Annie shortly. And indeed it was truth enough
for a woman. Not that I dare to believe that women are such liars as men
say; only that I mean they often see things round the corner, and know
not which is which of it. And indeed I never have known a woman
(though right enough in their meaning) purely and perfectly true and
transparent, except only my Lorna; and even so, I might not have loved
her, if she had been ugly.
“Why, how so?” said I; “Miss Annie, what business have you here, doing
nothing at this time of night? And leaving me with all the trouble to
entertain our guests!”
“You seem not to me to be doing it, John,” Annie answered softly; “what
business have you here doing nothing, at this time of night?”
I was taken so aback with this, and the extreme impertinence of it, from
a mere young girl like Annie, that I turned round to march away and
have nothing more to say to her. But she jumped up, and caught me by the
hand, and threw herself upon my bosom, with her face all wet with tears.
“Oh, John, I will tell you. I will tell you. Only don't be angry, John.”
“Angry! no indeed,” said I; “what right have I to be angry with you,
because you have your secrets? Every chit of a girl thinks now that she
has a right to her secrets.”
“And you have none of your own, John; of course you have none of your
own? All your going out at night--”
“We will not quarrel here, poor Annie,” I answered, with some loftiness;
“there are many things upon my mind, which girls can have no notion of.”
“And so there are upon mine, John. Oh, John, I will tell you everything,
if you will look at me kindly, and promise to forgive me. Oh, I am so
miserable!”
Now this, though she was behaving so badly, moved me much towards her;
especially as I longed to know what she had to tell me. Therefore I
allowed her to coax me, and to kiss me, and to lead me away a little, as
far as the old yew-tree; for she would not tell me where she was.
But even in the shadow there, she was very long before beginning, and
seemed to have two minds about it, or rather perhaps a dozen; and she
laid her cheek against the tree, and sobbed till it was pitiful; and I
knew what mother would say to her for spoiling her best frock so.
“Now will you stop?” I said at last, harder than I meant it, for I knew
that she would go on all night, if any one encouraged her: and though
not well acquainted with women, I understood my sisters; or else I must
be a born fool--except, of course, that I never professed to understand
Eliza.
“Yes, I will stop,” said Annie, panting; “you are very hard on me, John;
but I know you mean it for the best. If somebody else--I am sure I don't
know who, and have no right to know, no doubt, but she must be a wicked
thing--if somebody else had been taken so with a pain all round the
heart, John, and no power of telling it, perhaps you would have coaxed,
and kissed her, and come a little nearer, and made opportunity to be
very loving.”
Now this was so exactly what I had tried to do to Lorna, that my breath
was almost taken away at Annie's so describing it. For a while I could
not say a word, but wondered if she were a witch, which had never been
in our family: and then, all of a sudden, I saw the way to beat her,
with the devil at my elbow.
“From your knowledge of these things, Annie, you must have had them done
to you. I demand to know this very moment who has taken such liberties.”
“Then, John, you shall never know, if you ask in that manner. Besides,
it was no liberty in the least at all, Cousins have a right to do
things--and when they are one's godfather--” Here Annie stopped quite
suddenly having so betrayed herself; but met me in the full moonlight,
being resolved to face it out, with a good face put upon it.
“Alas, I feared it would come to this,” I answered very sadly; “I know
he has been here many a time, without showing himself to me. There is
nothing meaner than for a man to sneak, and steal a young maid's heart,
without her people knowing it.”
“You are not doing anything of that sort yourself then, dear John, are
you?”
“Only a common highwayman!” I answered, without heeding her; “a man
without an acre of his own, and liable to hang upon any common, and no
other right of common over it--”
“John,” said my sister, “are the Doones privileged not to be hanged upon
common land?”
At this I was so thunderstruck, that I leaped in the air like a shot
rabbit, and rushed as hard as I could through the gate and across the
yard, and back into the kitchen; and there I asked Farmer Nicholas Snowe
to give me some tobacco, and to lend me a spare pipe.
This he did with a grateful manner, being now some five-fourths gone;
and so I smoked the very first pipe that ever had entered my lips till
then; and beyond a doubt it did me good, and spread my heart at leisure.
Meanwhile the reapers were mostly gone, to be up betimes in the morning;
and some were led by their wives; and some had to lead their wives
themselves, according to the capacity of man and wife respectively. But
Betty was as lively as ever, bustling about with every one, and looking
out for the chance of groats, which the better off might be free with.
And over the kneading-pan next day, she dropped three and sixpence out
of her pocket; and Lizzie could not tell for her life how much more
might have been in it.
Now by this time I had almost finished smoking that pipe of tobacco, and
wondering at myself for having so despised it hitherto, and making up my
mind to have another trial to-morrow night, it began to occur to me that
although dear Annie had behaved so very badly and rudely, and almost
taken my breath away with the suddenness of her allusion, yet it was not