The Bells Of Stepan Iline

(Cradle Song from "The Long Road.")


Whisht, Baby! Whisht!
Quick below the cover!
Down into your nest, my bird!
And--don't--you--dare--peep--over!
For the grey wolves they are prowling,
They are prowling, they are prowling.
And the snow-wind it is howling,
It is howling, it is howling.
Hark!--Hark!--
Out there in the dark--
Ow--ooh! Ow--ooh!
S-s-s-s-s-seee--oo--ooh!
The wolves they are lean,
So-o-o lean, so-o-o lean!
And the wind it is keen,
So-o-o keen, so-o-o keen!
And they seek little babies who aren't sleeping!
But lie you still, my Baby dear!
Lie still, lie still, and maybe you'll hear--
Hark!--Hark!--
Out there in the dark,--
The silver bells and the golden bells,
The swinging bells and the singing bells,--
The bells that are heard but never are seen,
The wind and the wolves, and the bells in between,--
The bells of Iline,
Good Stepan Iline,--
The bells of good Stepan Iline!

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

William Arthur Dunkerley, better known by his pen name John Oxenham, was an English journalist, novelist, and poet. He was a prolific writer in the early 20th century, producing a wide range of literary works including poetry, hymns, and novels. His works often reflected Christian themes and were popular during his time. Dunkerley also contributed to the establishment of the Boys' Brigade, a notable youth organization in the UK. His legacy includes a significant contribution to both literature and social causes.

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

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English

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The Blue-Bells On The Lea.

FAIRY KING.


"The breeze is on the Blue-bells,
The wind is on the lea;
Stay out! stay out! my little lad,
And chase the wind with me.
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At deep midnight,
When stars are bright,
You'll hear the Blue-bells ring--
D!
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On slender stems they swing.

"The rustling wind, the whistling wind,
We'll chase him to and fro,
We'll chase him up, we'll chase him down
To where the King-cups grow;
And where old Jack-o'-Lantern waits
To light us on our way,
And far behind,
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The Blue-bells seem to play--
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"So gay that fairy music,
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The Bells Of Ys

When the Bells of Ys rang softly,--softly,
Soft--and sweet--and low,
Not a sound was heard in the old gray town,
As the silvery tones came floating down,
But life stood still with uncovered head,
And doers of ill did good instead,
And abroad the Peace of God was shed,
When the bells aloft sang softly--softly,
Soft--and sweet--and low,--
The Silver Bells and the Golden Bells,--
Aloft, and aloft, and alow.

And still those Bells ring softly--softly,
Soft--and sweet--and low.
Though full twelve hundred years have gone,
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Shadow and light both strove to be
The eight bell-ringers' company,
As with his gliding rope in hand,
Counting his changes, each did stand;
While rang and trembled every stone,
To music by the bell-mouths blown,
Till the bright clouds that towered on high
Seemed to re-echo cry with cry.
Still swang the clappers to and fro,
When, in the far-spread fields below,
I saw a ploughman with his team
Lift to the bells and fix on them
His distant eyes, as if he would
Drink in the utmost sound he could;
While near him sat his children three,
And in the green grass placidly
Played undistracted on, as if
What music earthly bells might give
Could only faintly stir their dream,
And stillness make more lovely seem.
Soon night hid horses, children, all
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O curfew of the setting sun! O Bells of Lynn!
O requiem of the dying day! O Bells of Lynn!

From the dark belfries of yon cloud-cathedral wafted,
Your sounds aerial seem to float, O Bells of Lynn!

Borne on the evening wind across the crimson twilight,
O'er land and sea they rise and fall, O Bells of Lynn!

The fisherman in his boat, far out beyond the headland,
Listens, and leisurely rows ashore, O Bells of Lynn!

Over the shining sands the wandering cattle homeward
Follow each other at your call, O Bells of Lynn!

The distant lighthouse hears, and with his flaming signal
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The Bells Of Kirkby Overblow
Draw back my curtains, Mary,
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Ay, ay, I know I'm deein',
While to-morn I'll hardlins bide.
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An' I lig cowd as snow,
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Mony a neet an' mornin'
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Gert, skelpin', chunterin' taistrils,(1)
All janglin' in a row!
Ay, mony a time I've cursed yon bells
O' Kirkby Overblow.

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No magical sense conveys,
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"Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily,
While a boy listened alone;
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All by himself on a stone.

Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over,
And mine, they are yet to be;
No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover:
You leave the story to me.

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