THE BALLAD OF ANNIE GRAY (Poetry Monthly)

A fair young maiden sat and wept

Upon the forest floor;

The hot tears fell until she slept

For she could weep no more.

She tossed and turned in troubled sleep

And cursed the very name

Of the cruel swain who’d made her weep

And brought her to such shame.

All through the night the cold winds howled

And by the light of dawn

In fear and pain she screamed out loud

As her little son was born.

Softly she kissed his golden head

And skin as smooth as silk –

But, alas, she saw the boy was dead

And would never taste her milk.

Two days she clasped him to her breast,

Not mindful of foul weather

Until at last, she was at rest

And closed her eyes for ever.

They lay beneath an old oak tree

Which sighed at the sad sight

Of a young girl and her sweet baby -

No shroud to warm their plight

‘Twas not yet autumn, but in his grief

For the infant and the mother

The oak shed every single leaf

To cover them right over.

They found them both when Christmas came;

In unholy ground they laid them,

Wronged maid and baby with no name -

For the church, it would not have them.

A hundred years or more have passed

And folks in those parts still say

When the cold wind whistles through the wood

‘That’s the ghost of Annie Gray’.