Archy Tait—the Village Chronicle.
’Twere endless task, in numbers to relate1
The ceaseless wanderings of old “ Archy Tait”—2
His lonesome travels thro’ the trackless moss—3
His hair-breadth accidents-adventures cross—4
His stories frightful, meaningless, and odd—5
Of ghostly visions on his mighty road—6
Of voices bursting from the darksome glen—7
“ Of tumbling amries,” and of headless men—8
Of sheeted ghosts, and death-foreboding specks9
Of spreading lights on horse’s ears and necks—10
Of nightly rap—eluding sick man’s ear—11
But shaking every limb of nurse to hear—12
†† Of coffins hammered at the noon of night—13
Warning of morning job the quaking wright—14
Of wraiths that take our form, to let us know15
What hours of future life the fates bestow—16
Of fires that cross the doubtful travellers’ way,17
And blaze, to lead his homeward steps astray—18
And he would speak of elves, all clad in green,19
On fairy knowe, or green-sward valley seen,20
Their airy march has passed him on the lea—21
The gingling steed, the peal of jollity.22
Of changling Imp—he spoke, no care could rear,23
Which backward seemed to orp, from year to year.24
From morn to night some hellish trick that planned,25
And from a nine years cradle cursed and banned—26
Which trail’d its toad-like form around the fire,27
Or crawled on knees and elbows through the mire,28
At even-tide upset the milk-maid’s pail—29
Tied up the littered cattle, tail to tail—30
Then held its sides, and yelled, to hear the roar,31
And see the rushing milk-maid tumble o’er,32
And he has heard the wizzard Curlers ply33
Their gleesome game beneath a wintry sky,34
As up the nightly Rink, the viewless stone,35
With sweep, and shout, and booming speed, has gone.36
Of “ Brownie,” he could tell, his airy strength37
Across the midnight hearth-stone laid at length—38
The corn he threshed—the various work he did—39
The peats he hurled at lazy varlet’s head—40
His hatred of deceit—the means he chose41
To punish her who tasted “ Brownie’s broze.”42
Oh, I have sat from eve to early morn,43
On Archy’s endless stream of “ stories” borne—44
Eyed every movement—listened every sound—45
Called into forms of meaning shapes around—46
Yet, still intent to learn each tale of dread,47
Tho’ deepening o’er my cheek the safron
spread—48
† Written note for Montrose.
The fading ingle urged into a blaze,49
From every rafter seen a Terror
gaze ;50
The bounding line of light and darkness scanned,51
And sudden flight ’gainst sudden danger planned52
Rest to thy spirit “ Archy”—peaceful rest—53
Amidst thy fellow-spirits of the blessed—54
And ne’er may’st thou, with ghostly visage come,55
Around this earth, in “ spectre guise,” to roam—56
With thy unearthly presence, to affright57
Some future wandering “ Archy” of the night.58