 The Fetch by Dora Sigerson Shorter Read for LibreVox.org by J. C. Guan Montreal, February 2008 What makes you so late at the tri-sting? What cost you so long to be? For a weary time I have waited from the hour you promised me. I would I were here by your side, love, for many an hour ago, for a thing I passed on the roadway, all mournful and so slow. And what have you passed on the roadside that kept you so long and late? It is weary the time behind me since I left my father's gate, as I hastened on in the glooming by the road to you tonight. There I saw the corpse of a young maid all clad in a shroud of white. And was she some comrade cherished, or was she a sister dead, that you left thus your own beloved till the tri-sting hour had fled? Oh, I would that I could discover, but never did see her face, and I knew I must turn and follow till I came to her resting place. And did it go up by the town-path? Did it go down by the lake? I know there are but the two church-yards where a corpse its rest may take. They did not go up by the town-path, nor stopped by the lake their feet. They buried the corpse all silently, where the four crossroads do meet. And was it so strange as sight then, that you should go like a child, thus to leave me wait all forgotten by a passing sight beguiled? It was my name that I heard them whisper, each mourner that passed by me, and I had to follow their footsteps, though their faces I could not see. And right well I should like to know now, who might be this fair young maid, so come with me, my own true love, if you be not afraid. He did not go down by the lakeside, he did not go by the town, but carried her to the four crossroads, and he there did set her down. Now I see no track of a foot here, I see no mark of a spade, and I know right well in this white road that never a grave was made. And he took her hand in his right hand, and led her to town away. And there he questioned the good old priest, did he bury a maid that day. And he took her hand in his right hand, down to the church by the lake, and there he questioned the pale young priest, if a maiden her life did take. But neither had heard of a new grave in all the parish around, and no one could tell of a young maid thus put in on holy ground. So he lost her hand from his hand, and turned on his heel away, and I know now you are false, he said, from the lie you told to-day. And she said, Alas, what evil thing did to-night my senses take. She knelt her down by the waterside, and wept as her heart would break. And she said, Oh, what very sight then was it thus my grief to see. I will sleep well neat to the still water, since my love has turned from me. And her love he went to the Northland, and far to the South when he, and her distant voice still he could hear, call weeping so bitterly. And he could not rest in the daytime, he could not sleep in the night. So he hastened back to the old road, with the tristing place in sight. What first he'd heard was his own love's name, and keening both loud and long, what first he saw was his love's dear face, at the head of a morning throng. And all white she was as the dead are, and never a move made she, but passed him by in her lone black paw, still sleeping so peacefully. And all cold she was as the dead are, and never a word she spoke. When they said, unholy is her grave, for she her life did take. And silent she was as the dead are, and never a cry she made. When there came more sad than the keening, the ring of a digging spade, no rest she had in the old town church, no grave but a lake so sweet. They buried her in unholy ground, where the four crossroads do meet, and of poem. This recording is in the public domain. And what have you passed on the roadside that kept you so long and late? It is weary the time behind me, since I left my father's gate, as I hastened on in the gloaming by the road to you to-night, there I saw the corpse of a young maid all clad in a shroud of white. And was she some comrade cherished, or was she a sister dead, that you left thus your own beloved till the tristing hour had fled, oh, I would that I could discover, but never did see her face, and I knew I must turn and follow till I came to her resting place. And did it go up by the town path? Did it go down by the lake? I know there but two churchyards where a corpse its rest may take. They did not go up by the town path, nor stopped by the lake their feet. They buried the corpse all silently, where the four crossroads to meet. And was it so strange aside then, that you should go like a child, thus to leave me wait all forgotten, by a passing sight beguiled? It was my name that I heard them whisper, each mourner that passed by me, and I had to follow their footsteps, though their faces I could not see. And right well I should like to know now, who might be this fair young maid, so come with me, my own true love, if you be not afraid. He did not go down by the lakeside, he did not go by the town, but carried her to the four crossroads, and he there did set her down. Now I see no track of a foot here, I see no mark of a spade, and I know right well in this white road that never a grave was made. And he took her hand in his right hand, and led her to town away. And there he questioned the good old priest, did he bury a maid that day. And he took her hand in his right hand, down to the church by the lake. And there he questioned the pale young priest, if a maid her life did take. But neither had heard of a new grave and all the parish around, and no one could tell of a young maid thus put in unholy ground. So he loosed her hand from his hand, and turned on his heel away, and I know you are false, he said, from the lie you told today. And she said, Alas, what evil thing did tonight my senses take? She knelt her down by the waterside, and wept. As her heart would break. And she said, Oh, what very sight then was it thus my grief to see? I will sleep well near the still water, since my love has turned from me. And her love he went to the Northland, and far to the South went he. And her distant voice he still could hear, call weeping so bitterly. And he could not rest in the daytime, he could not sleep in the night. So he hastened back to the old road, with the tristing place in sight. What first he heard was his own love's name, and keening both loud and long. What first he saw was his love's dear face, at the head of a morning throng. And all white she was as the dead are, and never a move made she, but passed him by in her lone black pawl, still sleeping so peacefully. And all cold she was as the dead are, and never a word she spake, when they said, unholy is her grave, for she her life did take. And silent she was as the dead are, and never a cry she made, when there came, more sad than the keening, the ring of a digging spade. No rest had she in the old town church, no grave by the lake so sweet. They buried her in unholy ground, where the four crossroads do meet. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Fetch by Dora Sigerson Shorter. Read for LibriVox.org by Lisa Esch, Bolly Beach, South Carolina. What makes you so late at the tristing? What caused you so long to be, for a weary time I have waited from the hour you promised me? I would, I were here by your side, love, full many an hour ago, for a thing I passed on the roadway all mournful and so slow. And what have you passed on the roadside that kept you so long and late? It is weary the time behind me since I left my father's gate. As I hastened on in the gloaming by the road to you tonight, there I saw the corpse of a young maid all clad in a shroud of white. And was she, some comrade cherished, or was she a sister dead, that you left thus your own beloved till the tristing hour had fled? Oh, I would that I could discover, but never did see her face, and I knew I must turn and follow till I came to her resting place. And did it go up by the town path? Did it go down by the lake? I know there are but the two church yards where a corpse its rest may take. They did not go up by the town path, nor stopped by the lake their feet. They buried the corpse all silently where the four crossroads to meet. And was it so strange a sight then, that you should go like a child, thus to leave me, wait all forgotten, by a passing sight beguiled? It was my name that I heard them whisper, each mourner that passed by me. And I had to follow their footsteps, though their faces I could not see. And right well I should like to know now, who might be this fair young maid. So come with me, my own true love, if you be not afraid. He did not go down by the lake side, he did not go by the town, but carried her to the four crossroads, and he there did set her down. Now I see no track of a foot here, I see no mark of a spade, and I know right well in this white road that never a grave was made. And he took her hand in his right hand, and he led her to town away. And there he questioned the good old priest, did he bury a maid that day? And he took her hand in his right hand down to the church by the lake, and there he questioned the pale young priest if a maiden her life did take. But neither had heard of a new grave in all the parish around, and no one could tell of a young maid thus put in unholy ground. So he lost her hand from his hand, and he turned on his heel away. And I know now you are false, he said, from the lie you told today. And she said, Alas, what evil thing did tonight my senses take? And she knelt her down by the water side, and wept as her heart would break. And she said, oh, what very sight then! Was it thus my grief to see? I will sleep well, neath the still water, till my love has turned from me. And her love he went to the Northland, far to the South went he. And her distant voice he still could hear, call weeping so bitterly. And he could not rest in the daytime. He could not sleep in the night. So he hastened back to the old road with the treesting place in sight. What first he heard was his own love's name, and keening both loud and long. What first he saw was his love's dear face at the head of a morning throng. And all white she was as the dead are, and never a move made she, but passed him by in her own lone black pole, still sleeping so peacefully. And all cold she was as the dead are, and never a word she spake, when they said, unholy is her grave, for she her life did take. And she silent was as the dead are, and never a cry she made, when there came more sad than the keening, the ring of a digging spade. No rest she had in the old town church, no grave by the lake so sweet. They buried her in unholy ground, where the four crossroads do meet. And of poem. This recording is in the public domain. What makes you so late at the treesting? What caused you so long to be? For a weary time I have waited from the hour you promised me. I would have were here by your side-love, full many an hour ago, for a thing I passed on the roadway all mournful and so slow. And what have you passed on the roadside that kept you so long and late? It is weary the time behind me since I left my father's gate, as I hastened on in the gloaming by the road to you to-night, there I saw the corpse of a young maid all clad in a shroud of white. And was she some comrade cherished, or was she a sister dead, that you left thus your own beloved till the treesting hour had fled? Oh, I would that I could discover, but never did see her face, and I knew I must turn and follow till I came to her resting place. And did it go down by the town path, did it go down by the lake? I know there are but two church yards where a corpse its rest may take. They did not go up by the town path, nor stop by the lake their feet, they buried the corpse all silently where the four cross-roads do meet. And was it so strange a sight, then, that you should go like a child, thus to leave me weight all forgotten by a passing sight beguiled? It was my name that I heard them whisper, each mourner that passed by me, and I had to follow their footsteps, though their faces I could not see. And, right well, I should like to know, now, who might be this fair young maid, so come with me, my own true love, if you be not afraid. He did not go down by the lake side, he did not go by the town, but carried her to the four cross-roads, and he there did set her down. Now I see no track of a foot here, I see no mark of a spade, and I know right well in this white road there never a grave was made. And he took her hand in his right hand and led her to town away, and there he questioned the good old priest, did he bury a maid that day? And he took her hand in his right hand down to the church by the lake, and there he questioned the pale young priest if a maiden her life did take. But neither had heard of a new grave in all the parish around, and no one could tell of a young maid thus put in unholy ground. So he loosed her hand from his hand and turned on his heel away, and I know now you are false, he said, from the lie you told me today. And she said, Alas, what evil thing did tonight my senses take? She knelt her down by the water side and wept as her heart would break. And she said, Oh, what fairy sight then was it thus my grief to see? I will sleep well beneath the still water since my love has turned from me. And her love he went to the Northland, and far to the South went he, and her distant voice he still could hear call weeping so bitterly. And he could not rest in the daytime, he could not sleep in the night, so he hastened back to the old road with the tristing place in sight. What first he heard was his own love's name, and keening both loud and long, what first he saw was his love's dear face at the head of a morning throng. And all white she was as the dead are, and never a move made she, but passed him by in her lone black paw, still sleeping so peacefully. And all cold she was as the dead are, and never a word she spake, when they said, unholy is her grave for she her life did take. And silent she was as the dead are, and never a cry she made, when there came more sad than the keening the ring of a digging spade. No rest she had in the old town church, no grave by the lake so sweet. They buried her in unholy ground with a four crossroads to meet. And upon this recording is in the public domain. Every time I have waited from the hour you promised me. I would I were here by your side, love, full many an hour ago, for a thing I passed on the roadway all mournful and so slow. And what have you passed on the roadside that kept you so long and late? It is weary the time behind me since I left my father's gate, as I hastened on in the gloaming by the road to you to-night. There I saw the corpse of a young maid, all clad in a shroud of white. And was she some comrade cherished, or was she a sister dead, that you left us your own beloved till the tristing hour had fled? Oh, I would that I could discover but never to see her face, and I knew I must turn and follow till I came to her resting place. And did it go up by the town path? Did it go down by the lake? I know there are but the two church yards where a corpse at its rest may take. They did not go up by the town path, nor stop at the lake by their feet. They buried the corpse all silently where the full crossroads do meet. And was it so strange a sight then that you should go like a child, thus to leave me wait all forgotten by a passing sight beguiled? It was my name that I heard them whisper, each mourner that passed me by, and I had to follow their footsteps so their faces I could not see. And right well I should like to know now who might be this fair young maid, so come with me, my own true love, if you be not afraid. It did not go down by the lake side. He did not go by the town, but carried her to the full crossroads, and there did set her down. Now, I see no track of a foot here, I see no mark of a spade, and I know right well in this white road that never a grave was made. And he took her hand in his right hand, and led her to town away. And there he questioned the good old priest, did he bury a maid that day. And he took her hand in his right hand down to the church by the lake, and there he questioned the pale young priest if a maiden her life did take. But neither had heard of a new grave in all the parish around, and no one could tell of a young maid thus put in unholy ground. So he loosed her hand from his hand, and turned on his heel away, and, I know now you are false, he said, from the lie you told to-day. And she said, Alas! what evil thing did to-night my senses take! She knelt her down by the water-side, and wept as her heart would break. And she said, Oh! what fairy sight then was it thus my grief to see! I will sleep well, neath the still water, since my love has turned from me. And her love he went to the Northland, and far to the South went he, and her distant voice he still could hear call weeping so bitterly. And he could not rest in the daytime, he could not sleep in the night, so he hastened back to the old road with the tristing place in sight. What first he heard was his own love's name, and keening both loud and long, what first he saw was his love's dear face at the head of a morning throng, and all white was she as the dead are, and never a move made she. But passed him by in her lone black pawl, still sleeping so peacefully. And all cold was she as the dead are, and never a word she spake, when they said, unholy is her grave, for she her life did take. And silent she was as the dead are, and never a cry she made when there came more sad than the keening, the ring of a digging spade. No rest she had in the old town church, no grave by the lake so sweet. They buried her in unholy ground where the four crossroads do meet. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. What makes you so late at the tristing? What caused you so long to be? For a weary time I have waited from the hour you promised me. I would I were here by your side, love, full many an hour ago, for a thing I passed on the roadway all mournful and so slow. And what have you passed on the roadside that kept you so long and late? It is weary the time behind me since I left my father's gate, as I hastened on in the gloaming by the road to you tonight. There I saw the corpse of a young maid all clad in a shroud of white. And was she some comrade cherished, or was she a sister dead, that you left thus your own beloved till the tristing hour had fled? Oh, I would that I could discover, but never did see her face. And I knew I must turn and follow till I came to her resting place. And did it go up by the town path? Did it go down by the lake? I know there are but two church yards where a corpse its rest may take. They did not go up by the town path, nor stopped by the lake their feet. They buried the corpse all silently where the four crossroads do meet. And was it so strange a sight then that you should go like a child, thus to leave me wait all forgotten by a passing sight beguiled? It was my name that I heard them whisper, each mourner that passed by me. And I had to follow their footsteps, though their faces I could not see. And right well I should like to know now who might be this fair young maid. So come with me, my own true love. If you be not afraid, he did not go down by the lake side. He did not go down by the town. But he carried her to the four crossroads, and he there did set her down. Now I see no track of a foot here, I see no mark of a spade, and I know right well in this white road that never a grave was made. And he took her hand in his right hand, and led her to town away. And there he questioned the good old priest, did he bury a maid that day? And he took her hand in his right hand down to the church by the lake, and there he questioned the pale young priest, if a maiden her life did take. But neither had heard of a new grave in all the parish around, and no one could tell of a young maid thus put in unholy ground. So he loosed her hand from his hand, and turned on his heel away. And I know you are false, he said, from the lie you told today. And she said, alas, what evil thing did tonight my senses take? She knelt her down by the water side, and wept as her heart would break. And she said, oh, what fairy sight then was it thus my grief to see? I will sleep well beneath the still water, since my love has turned from me. And her love he went to the Northland, and far to the South went he. And her distant voice he could still hear, call weeping so bitterly. And he could not rest in the daytime, he could not sleep in the night. So he hastened back to the old road, with the tristing place in sight. What first he heard was his own love's name, and keening both loud and long. What first he saw was his love's dear face, at the head of a mourning throng. And all white was she as the dead are, and never a move made she. But passed him by in her lone black paw, still sleeping so peacefully. And all cold was she as the dead are, and never a word she spake, when they said unholy is her grave, for she her life did take. And silent she was as the dead are, and never a cry she made. When there came more sad than the keening, the ring of a digging spade. No rest she had in the old town church, no grave by the lake so sweet. They buried her in unholy ground, where the four crossroads do meet. End of poem, this recordings in the public domain. So long to be, for worry time I have waited from the hour you promised me. I worked, I worked here by your side of love, for many an hour ago, for a thing I pass on the roadway, all more fun so slow. And who had you pass on the roadside that kept you so long and late? It is a worry the time behind me since I left my father's gate. As I hasten on in the groaning by the road to you tonight, there I saw the cross of young maid all cried in a throttle wide. And was she some courage or was she a sister dead? That you live thus you all be loved till the trusting hours flat? Oh, I worked that I could discover, but never to see her face. And I knew I must turn and follow till I came to her resting place. And did it go up by the town path, did it go down by the lake? I know there about the two church yards where a cross is risk may take. They did not go up by the town path, nor stood by the lake their feet. They buried the cross all silently where the four crossroads do meet. And was it so strange inside then that you should go like a child? Thus to leave me wait all forgotten by your passing side be gout? To answer my name that I heard them whisper, each moaner that passed by me. And I had to follow their footsteps, though their faces I could not see. And right where I should like to know now who might be this fair young maid? So come with me, my old true love, you will be not afraid. He did not go down by the lake side, he did not go by the town, but carried her to the four crossroads, and he there dissect her down. Now I see no check out full here, I see no mark of spade. And I know right where in this white road, there never grave was made. And he took her hand in his right hand, and left her to tower away, and there he could turn the good old priest did she buried maid that day. And he took her hand in his right hand, down to the church by the lake, and there he could turn the pale young priest, you will maiden her life did take. But neither had heard of new grave in all the parish around. And no one could tell a young maid thus put in unholy crowd. So he rose her hand from his hand, and turned on his heel away, and I know now you are forced he said from the lie you told today. And she said, or else we both think to tonight my senses take. She made her down by the water side and web as how it break. And she said, or what for inside then was thus my grave to see. Our sleep were beneath the still water, since my love has turned from me. And her love he went to the north land and fall to the south when he, and her distant boys he could still hear call webbing so badly. And he could not rest in the daytime, he could not sleep in the night. So he hastened back to the old road with the trusting place inside. What he first heard was his old love's name, and killing both love and long. What he first saw was his love's dear face at the head of Mounting Thong. And all white she was at the daire, and never moved me she. But passing by her long black pile still sleeping so peacefully. And all cold she was at the daire, and never heard she speak. When they say, unholy is her grief for she her life detect. And silent she was at the daire, and never cries she made. When there came most at then the king in the ring or digging spade. No rest she had in the old town church, no grief by the lay so sweet. They bury her in unholy ground where the four crossroads do meet. End of point. This recording