Classic Poem

Murk was the night: nor star, nor moon,
Shone in the cloud-wrapped sky,
To break the dull, tenebrous gloom
Of the arched vault on high,

When Naughty, with his dog and gun,
Walked lonely o'er the moor;
True the shooting-season had not begun,
But poachers commence before.

The howling winds blew fierce around,
The rain drove in his face,
And as Naughty heard the hollow sound
He quickened his creeping pace;

For, as each hoarse, sepulchral blast
Drew slow and solemn near,
It seemed like spirits sailing past
To his affrighted ear.

For he was on a dreadful errand bent
To the ancient witch of the moor:
A delegate by his comrades sent
To consult the beldam hoar.

Now yelled the wind with more terrible din,
Now rattled the rain full fast,
And, noiselessly gliding, forms were seen
As around his eyes he cast;

When a rustling sound in the heather he heard:
Starting, he turned about;
Was it a spirit? Was it a bird?
No, a hare sprang trembling out!

The shot went " Whizz!" and the gun went " Bang!"
A flash illumed the air;
Far and wide the moor with echo rang
As down dropped the luckless hare.

He ran to the spot, and, lo! there lay
A woman on the hard heath bed,
Whose soul had left its breathless clay,
For the witch of the moor was dead!