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Dante Gabriel Rossetti - Stratton Water
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“O HAVE you seen the Stratton flood
That`s great with rain to-day?
It runs beneath your wall, Lord Sands,
Full of the new-mown hay.
“I led your hounds to Hutton bank
To bathe at early morn:
They got their bath by Borrowbrake
Above the standing corn.”
Out from the castle-stair Lord Sands
Looked up the western lea;
The rook was grieving on her nest,
The flood was round her tree.
Over the castle-wall Lord Sands
Looked down the eastern hill:
The stakes swam free among the boats,
The flood was rising still.
“What`s yonder far below that lies
So white against the slope?”
“O it`s a sail o` your bonny barks
The waters have washed up.”
“But I have never a sail so white,
And the water`s not yet there.”
“O it`s the swans o` your bonny lake
The rising flood doth scare.”
“The swans they would not hold so still,
So high they would not win.”
“O it`s Joyce my wife has spread her smock
And fears to fetch it in.”
“Nay, knave, it`s neither sail nor swans,
Nor aught that you can say;
For though your wife might leave her smock,
Herself she`d bring away.”
Lord Sands has passed the turret-stair,
The court, and yard, and all;
The kine were in the byre that day,
The nags were in the stall. 
Lord Sands has won the weltering slope
Whereon the white shape lay:
The clouds were still above the hill,
And the shape was still as they.
Oh pleasant is the gaze of life
And sad is death`s blind head;
But awful are the living eyes
In the face of one thought dead!
“In God`s name, Janet, is it me
Thy ghost has come to seek?”
“Nay, wait another hour, Lord Sands,—
Be sure my ghost shall speak.”
A moment stood he as a stone,
Then grovelled to his knee.
“O Janet, O my love, my love,
Rise up and come with me!”
“O once before you bade me come,
And it`s here you have brought me!
“O many`s the sweet word, Lord Sands,
You`ve spoken oft to me;
But all that I have from you to-day
Is the rain on my body.
“And many`s the good gift, Lord Sands,
You`ve promised oft to me;
But the gift of yours I keep to-day
Is the babe in my body.
“O it`s not in any earthly bed
That first my babe I`ll see;
For I have brought my body here
That the flood may cover me.”
His face was close against her face,
His hands of hers were fain:
O her wet cheeks were hot with tears,
Her wet hands cold with rain.
“They told me you were dead, Janet,—
How could I guess the lie?”
“They told me you were false, Lord Sands,—
What could I do but die?”
“Now keep you well, my brother Giles,—
Through you I deemed her dead!
As wan as your towers seem to-day,
To-morrow they`ll be red. 
“Look down, look down, my false mother,
That bade me not to grieve:
You`ll look up when our marriage fires
Are lit to-morrow eve:
“O more than one and more than two
The sorrow of this shall see:
But it`s to-morrow, love, for them,—
To-day`s for thee and me.”
He`s drawn her face between his hands
And her pale mouth to his:
No bird that was so still that day
Chirps sweeter than his kiss.
The flood was creeping round their feet. 
“O Janet, come away!
The hall is warm for the marriage-rite,
The bed for the birthday.”
“Nay, but I hear your mother cry,
‘Go bring this bride to bed!
And would she christen her babe unborn,
So wet she comes to wed?’
“I`ll be your wife to cross your door
And meet your mother`s e`e.
We plighted troth to wed i` the kirk,
And it`s there you`ll wed with me.”
He`s ta`en her by the short girdle
And by the dripping sleeve:
“Go fetch Sir Jock my mother`s priest,—
You`ll ask of him no leave.
“O it`s one half-hour to reach the kirk
And one for the marriage-rite;
And kirk and castle and castle-lands
 Shall be our babe`s to-night.”
“The flood`s in the kirkyard, Lord Sands,
And round the belfry-stair.”
“I bade you fetch the priest,” he said,
“Myself shall bring him there.
“It`s for the lilt of wedding bells
We`ll have the hail to pour,
And for the clink of bridle-reins
The plashing of the oar.”
Beneath them on the nether hill
A boat was floating wide:
Lord Sands swam out and caught the oars
And rowed to the hill-side.
He`s wrapped her in a green mantle
And set her softly in;
Her hair was wet upon her face,
Her face was grey and thin;
And “Oh!” she said, “lie still, my babe,
It`s out you must not win!”
But woe`s my heart for Father John
As hard as he might pray,
There seemed no help but Noah`s ark
Or Jonah`s fish that day.
The first strokes that the oars struck
Were over the broad leas;
The next strokes that the oars struck
They pushed beneath the trees;
The last stroke that the oars struck,
The good boat`s head was met,
And there the gate of the kirk-yard
Stood like a ferry-gate. 
He`s set his hand upon the bar
And lightly leaped within:
He`s lifted her to his left shoulder,
Her knees beside his chin.
The graves lay deep beneath the flood 
Under the rain alone;
And when the foot-stone made him slip,
He held by the head-stone.
The empty boat thrawed i` the wind,
Against the postern tied.
“Hold still, you`ve brought my love with me,
You shall take back my bride.”
But woe`s my heart for Father John
And the saints he clamoured to!
There`s never a saint but Christopher
Might hale such buttocks through!
And “Oh!” she said, “on men`s shoulders
I well had thought to wend,
And well to travel with a priest,
But not to have cared or ken`d.
“And oh!” she said, “it`s well this way
That I thought to have fared,—
Not to have lighted at the kirk
But stopped in the kirkyard.
“For it`s oh and oh I prayed to God,
Whose rest I hoped to win,
That when to-night at your board-head
You`d bid the feast begin,
This water past your window-sill
Might bear my body in.”
Now make the white bed warm and soft
And greet the merry morn;
The night the mother should have died,
The young son shall be born.
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