Edward Tennant
UPON the feast of Candlemas to Church as I did go,
I met a witch upon the road who bobbing went and slow.
‘What makes you bob as you walk along ? ‘ said I , a – bowing low.
Oak forests seven mine eye hath seen to wax and wane, ‘ quo’ she,
‘Tis to bring the luck to the folk who flit from Worple ‘ cross the sea . ‘
‘ If you ride behind on my old grey mare to Diddlecombe Farm , ‘ said I,
‘ Will you let me look from the ingle nook at the good folk passing by ?
The road is hard, and your joints are stiff, and ‘ tis yet too light to fly . ‘
” By my toad that lived in an old chalk stone full seventy year,’ quo’ she,
‘ We’ll ride together to charm the flit from Worple ‘ cross the sea .’
So up behind the beldame clamb as light as an Autumn leaf,
And she did bewail the nimble gob’ men call the Dairy Thief,
( Who never harmed the tidy lass- ‘ twas the trollop he brought to grief. )
‘ By the ell- long whisker of my grey cat that hunts the hare on the lea,
I fear the goblin will flit to – night with the folk of the South Countree.’
And as we jogged along the road, the night grew wondrous fine,
And out of the Hills the Hill – folk came, and the Down- men, all in a line,
Their packs right full of their elfin gear, and their flasks of their trollish wine.
” By my slit-tongued finch that chitters in French like any condemn’d Mounseer,
If the Dairy Thief is to flit, ‘ quo’ the witch-‘ we can charm him best from here.’
Then limber as any stripling boy she vaulted to the ground,
As past the elfin legions filed , in green and silver gown’d ;
And their talk was soft as a cony’s back, and swift as a whippet hound .
‘ By the puckered cheek of my barbary ape ! ‘ tis an ill sight we see,
The glamour of England fades this day with the folk of the South Countree.’
The good folk passed-and silence fell , save where among the trees
Their elfin jargon echoed back and sighed upon the breeze,
Like channering mice in barley shocks, or humming honey bees.
‘ Now by my chin and span- long beard,’ I heard the beldame cry,
‘ I wot we ha’ missed the Dairy Thief ‘ mid the good folk flitting by. ‘
But scarcely had the word been said , when down a lapin track,
Behold the goblin slowly come, bent double beneath his pack,
And slow and mournful was his stride, for ever a- glancing back.
‘ Give ye the luck, ‘ the beldame cried : ‘ Give ye the luck,’ quo ‘ she,
And the Dairy Thief he doffed his cap , but never a word spake he .
Then over a knoll and under a style, until my eyes were sore,
I watched him go ; so sad an elf I never did see before ,
And I knew as I looked , the broad Downland was never to see him more.
‘ By oak, and ash, and thorn, good folk, ‘ the beldame then quo ‘ she,
‘ I fain would follow by hill and hollow, the men of the South Countree .’
Silent I stood and thought to hear across the open Down,
Some lingering lilt of a goblin song from pixie squat and brown,
Or perchance to spy some faerie dame in her dewy cobweb gown .
I search’d-and found ne witch ne folk, but as I stood forlorn,
Three green leaves flicker’d to the ground, —of oak and ash and thorn.
Poperinghe,
June, 1916.
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem is a curious mix of folklore and war-era melancholy. Its storytelling feels like a fable, blending whimsical imagery with a sense of loss. The speaker narrates an encounter with a witch, where the mundane and the magical intertwine on a journey to witness an exodus of supernatural beings. Yet underneath the playful charm lies a sadness that resonates with the historical context of 1916, deep in the heart of World War I.
The poem’s rhythm mirrors the movement of its characters—sometimes steady, like the witch bobbing along the road, and at times fleeting, like the elves passing by. The setting—a countryside alive with oak, ash, and thorn—feels timeless and quintessentially English, grounding the tale in a pastoral tradition. But this world is changing, marked by the departure of the faerie folk. Their journey “across the sea” mirrors real-world displacements, both literal and cultural.
The witch, a central figure, brings a touch of humor and wisdom. Her quirky sayings and magical companions—a toad, a whiskered cat, a finch—offer texture and lightness. Yet, her lament for the fading “glamour of England” carries weight, hinting at deeper anxieties about loss, whether of life, tradition, or enchantment.
The poem’s turning point comes with the appearance of the Dairy Thief, a goblin weighed down by sorrow and a heavy pack. His departure feels especially poignant, encapsulating the loss of something vital yet intangible. The speaker, left standing among oak, ash, and thorn, captures this sense of emptiness—a vivid reflection of wartime grief and the erosion of a world once filled with wonder.
The language and tone of the poem balance between playful and somber. Its charm lies in its ability to weave a fantastical tale while subtly addressing the profound changes and losses of the era. By the end, the flickering leaves seem to symbolize the remnants of a fading era—both the folkloric one of the poem and the pre-war world it reflects. This layering of fantasy and reality gives the poem a lasting impact, offering a nostalgic yet bittersweet glimpse of a world slipping away.