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Description:
Just a little ghost story for a friend on another forum. She wated to hear me read it, so...
I apologise in advance to any scottish/geordie lads and lasses out there. (Or should that be 'oot thar'?) Although I come from near the border, and am a Geordie born and bred, I don't have much of an accent, so I had to put one on for this reading. I can't do accents. I slip between Geordie and Scottish, and a mix....heh!
Lyrics:
"I will return, my love," he said.
"Watch for my sail a year today.
Go doon tae the dock wi' yer lantern brit,
And guide my ship on her way."
So doon she went tae the misty dock,
Doon she went wi' her lantern brit,
Doon she went wi' her staff in hand,
On that dright autumn night.
Now on the dock she stood alane,
The lantern high above her head.
The mist swirled thick but soon she saw
A sail, as her lover had said.
Doon he stepped onto the dock,
But strange were the yew leaves in his hair,
"I cannae stay, my love," he said,
"Soon I must awa' frae here."
His staff was but a broken oar,
His claethes were o' the seaweed green,
And as he stepped ontae the dock,
His e'e held a glimmerin' sheen.
"O no!" She cried intae his arms,
"Tell me that it isn't sae!
"Will ye no' spend the night at least,
Afore ye tell me ye must gae?"
"A night, I will, but only ane,
Afore the hounds of hell arrive,
At dawn I leave, for then the dogs
Will back intae the sea me drive."
And so they went, hand in hand
Fram the dock te her cottage fair,
And through the nicht he held her close,
The smell o' the sea mingling wi' her hair.
But soon the nicht had all but spent,
And thrice the cockrel called the day,
Rising fram his lover's bed,
The sailor cried "I must awa'!"
"The hounds o' hell are drawin' close,
They soon will track me doon, I fear,
And gin I'm missed out o' me place,
I must flee noo, awa' fram here!"
"Oh nae," she cried, her arms spread wide,
"Tell me that it cannae be!
If ye must gang awa', my love,
Tell me when I can see thee?"
"Alas me love, I cannae say,
For the gates o' hell are strong and wide,
Nae man has e'er broached them yet,
And I am buried deep inside."
Then bricht the sun shone in the room,
Bright it came in through the door,
And wi'out a word the phantom love
Vanished and left her heart sae sore.
She sat her doon and began tae weep,
Each tear wringing her heart,
Till the sun sank doon tae sleep,
And the moon rose tae play her part.
She gathered her shawl aboot her tight,
And tae the dock was her weary tread,
And standing on the dock she cried
"I cannae believe my lover is dead!"
Nae reply came tae her,
Nae opening o' the gates o' hell,
Nae sail on the distant shore,
Nae ringing o' the sailor's bell.
The water here was cald and dright,
Seeping up intae her banes
And lang she lay and cast adrift
Amang the weathered shingle-stanes.
Her hair like lilly-stems floated,
and when they pulled her to shore,
They said her face was calm and fair,
A beauty fit for lore.
Who can say if she found her love,
But on a certain night, she can still be seen
A banshee seeking for her love,
Wailin' her lover's keen.
Doon - down
Brit - Bright
dright - scottish word meaning horrible weather
alane - alone
gin - before
stane - stone
banshee - female ghost of scottish/celtic legends
keen - death lament
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Beautiful &mdash 03/13/07 - 10:35:25 AM
*sigh* I could sit and listen to you read that twenty times - very nice! [ Reply to This ]
Awwww &mdash 04/16/07 - 05:00:49 AM
Thanks, Dredmon!
---
When the last eagle flies over the last crumbling mountain, And the last lion roars at the last dusty fountain, In the shadow of the forest though she may be old and worn, They will stare unbelieving at the last unicorn!
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