Margery Grey
Lyrics
Fair the cabin walls were gleaming
In the sunbeams’ golden glow,
On that lovely April morning,
Near one hundred years ago,
And upon that humble threshold,
Stood the young wife, Margery Grey,
With her fearless blue eyes glancing
Down the lonely forest way.
In her arms a laughing baby
With its father’s dark hair played,
As he lingered there beside them,
Leaning on his trusty spade,
“I am going to the wheat lot,”
With a smile said Robert Grey,
“Will you be too lonely Margery,
If I leave you all the day?”
Then she smiled a cheerful answer
Ere she spoke a single word,
And the tone of her replying
Was as sweet as song of bird:
“No,” she said, “I’ll take the baby
And go and stay with Anna Brown,
You must meet us there dear Robert,
Ere the sun has quite gone down.”
Thus they parted, strong and sturdy
All the day he labored on,
Spading up the fertile acres
From the stubborn forest won.
When the lengthening shadows warned him
That the sun was in the west,
Down the woodland aisles he hastened,
Whispering, “Now for home and rest.”
But when he reached the clearing
Of his friend a mile away,
Neither wife or child were waiting there
To welcome Robert Grey.
“She is safe at home,” said Anna,
“For she went an hour ago.”
“It is strange I did not meet them,”
Came the answer swift and low.
Back he sped, but night was falling,
And the path he scarce could see;
Here and there his feet were guided
Onward by some deep-gashed tree.
When at length he gained the cabin,
Dark and desolate it stood,
Cold the hearth, the windows rayless,
In the stillest solitude.
With a murmured prayer, a shudder,
And a sob of anguish wild,
Back he darted through the forest,
Calling on his wife and child.
Soon the scattered settlers gathered
From the clearings far and near,
And the solemn woods resounded
To their voices rising clear.
Torches flared, and fires were kindled
And the horn’s long peal rang out,
While the startled echoes answered
To the hardy woodsmen’s shout.
But in vain their sad endeavor,
Night by night and day by day,
For no sign or token found they
Of the child or Margery Grey.
Woe! Woe! for pretty Margery!
With the baby on her arm,
On her homeward way she started,
Fearing nothing that could harm.
With a lip and brow untroubled,
And a heart at utter rest,
Through the dim woods she went singing
To the darling on her breast.
But in sudden terror, pausing,
Gazed she round in blank dismay.
Where were all the white scarred hemlocks
Pointing out the lonely way?
God of mercies! She had wandered
From the pathway. Not a tree
Giving mute but kindly warning
Could her straining vision see.
Twilight deepened into darkness,
And the stars came out on high.
All was silent in the forest
Save the owl’s low boding cry.
Round about her at the midnight,
Stealthy shadows softly crept,
And the babe upon her bosom
Closed its tired eyes and slept.
Hark! a shout! And in the distance
She could see a torch’s gleam.
But alas! She could not reach it,
And it vanished like a dream.
Then a shout - another -
But she shrieked and sobbed in vain,
Rushing wildly toward the presence
She could never, never gain.
Oh, the days so long and dreary!
Oh, the nights more dreary still!
More than once she heard the sounding
Of the horn from hill to hill.
More than once a smoldering fire
In some sheltered nook she found,
And she knew her husband’s footprints
Close beside it on the ground.
Dawned the fourth relentless morning,
And the sun’s unpitying eye
Looked upon the haggard mother,
Looked to see the baby die.
All day long its plaintive moaning
Wrung the heart of Margery Grey.
All night long her bosom cradled
It, a pallid thing of clay.
Three days more she bore it with her,
On her weary, toilsome way,
Till across its marbled beauty
Stole the plague spot of decay.
The she knew that she must leave it
In the wilderness to sleep,
Where the prowling wild beasts only
Watch above its grave could keep.
Down with grief she sat beside it,
O, how long she never knew!
With the tales her mother taught her,
To the dear All Father True;
When the skies were brass above her,
And the earth was cold and dim,
And when all her tears and pleadings
Brought no answer down from Him.
But alas, stern life the tyrant
Bade her take her burden up.
To her lips, so pale and shrunken,
Press again the bitter cup.
Up she rose, still tramping onward
Through the forest far and wide,
Till the May flowers bloomed and perished
And the sweet June roses died.
Till July and August brought her
Fruit and berries from their store;
Till the goldenrod and aster
Told her summer was no more;
Till the maples and the birches
Donned their robes of red and gold;
Till the birds were hastening southward
And the days were growing cold.
One chill morning in October
When the woods were brown and bare,
Through the streets of ancient Charlestown,
With a strange bewildered air,
Walked a gaunt and pallid woman,
Whose disheveled locks of brown
O’er her naked breast and shoulders
In the wind were streaming down.
Wondering glances fell upon her,
Women veiled their modest eyes
Ere they slowly ventured near her,
Drawn by pitying surprise.
“Tis some crazy one,” they muttered.
Back her tangled locks she tossed,
“O kind souls, take pity on me,
For I am not mad, but lost.”
Then she told her pitying story
In a strange disjointed way,
And with cold, white lips she murmured
“Take me back to Robert Grey.”
“But the river,” said they, pondering,
“We are on the Eastern side.
How crossed you its rapid water?
Deep the channel is, and wide!”
But she said she had not crossed it
In her strange erratic course.
She had wandered far to Northward,
Till she reached its fountain source
Through the dark Canadian forest,
And then blindly wandering on
Down the wild New Hampshire valleys
Her bewildered feet had gone.
Oh, the joy bells, sweet their ringing
On the frosty autumn air!
Oh, the boats across the waters,
How they leaped their tale to bear!
Oh, the wondrous golden sunset
On that blest October day,
When that weary wife was folded
To the heart of Robert Grey.
Text attr. Julia C Dorr.
In the sunbeams’ golden glow,
On that lovely April morning,
Near one hundred years ago,
And upon that humble threshold,
Stood the young wife, Margery Grey,
With her fearless blue eyes glancing
Down the lonely forest way.
In her arms a laughing baby
With its father’s dark hair played,
As he lingered there beside them,
Leaning on his trusty spade,
“I am going to the wheat lot,”
With a smile said Robert Grey,
“Will you be too lonely Margery,
If I leave you all the day?”
Then she smiled a cheerful answer
Ere she spoke a single word,
And the tone of her replying
Was as sweet as song of bird:
“No,” she said, “I’ll take the baby
And go and stay with Anna Brown,
You must meet us there dear Robert,
Ere the sun has quite gone down.”
Thus they parted, strong and sturdy
All the day he labored on,
Spading up the fertile acres
From the stubborn forest won.
When the lengthening shadows warned him
That the sun was in the west,
Down the woodland aisles he hastened,
Whispering, “Now for home and rest.”
But when he reached the clearing
Of his friend a mile away,
Neither wife or child were waiting there
To welcome Robert Grey.
“She is safe at home,” said Anna,
“For she went an hour ago.”
“It is strange I did not meet them,”
Came the answer swift and low.
Back he sped, but night was falling,
And the path he scarce could see;
Here and there his feet were guided
Onward by some deep-gashed tree.
When at length he gained the cabin,
Dark and desolate it stood,
Cold the hearth, the windows rayless,
In the stillest solitude.
With a murmured prayer, a shudder,
And a sob of anguish wild,
Back he darted through the forest,
Calling on his wife and child.
Soon the scattered settlers gathered
From the clearings far and near,
And the solemn woods resounded
To their voices rising clear.
Torches flared, and fires were kindled
And the horn’s long peal rang out,
While the startled echoes answered
To the hardy woodsmen’s shout.
But in vain their sad endeavor,
Night by night and day by day,
For no sign or token found they
Of the child or Margery Grey.
Woe! Woe! for pretty Margery!
With the baby on her arm,
On her homeward way she started,
Fearing nothing that could harm.
With a lip and brow untroubled,
And a heart at utter rest,
Through the dim woods she went singing
To the darling on her breast.
But in sudden terror, pausing,
Gazed she round in blank dismay.
Where were all the white scarred hemlocks
Pointing out the lonely way?
God of mercies! She had wandered
From the pathway. Not a tree
Giving mute but kindly warning
Could her straining vision see.
Twilight deepened into darkness,
And the stars came out on high.
All was silent in the forest
Save the owl’s low boding cry.
Round about her at the midnight,
Stealthy shadows softly crept,
And the babe upon her bosom
Closed its tired eyes and slept.
Hark! a shout! And in the distance
She could see a torch’s gleam.
But alas! She could not reach it,
And it vanished like a dream.
Then a shout - another -
But she shrieked and sobbed in vain,
Rushing wildly toward the presence
She could never, never gain.
Oh, the days so long and dreary!
Oh, the nights more dreary still!
More than once she heard the sounding
Of the horn from hill to hill.
More than once a smoldering fire
In some sheltered nook she found,
And she knew her husband’s footprints
Close beside it on the ground.
Dawned the fourth relentless morning,
And the sun’s unpitying eye
Looked upon the haggard mother,
Looked to see the baby die.
All day long its plaintive moaning
Wrung the heart of Margery Grey.
All night long her bosom cradled
It, a pallid thing of clay.
Three days more she bore it with her,
On her weary, toilsome way,
Till across its marbled beauty
Stole the plague spot of decay.
The she knew that she must leave it
In the wilderness to sleep,
Where the prowling wild beasts only
Watch above its grave could keep.
Down with grief she sat beside it,
O, how long she never knew!
With the tales her mother taught her,
To the dear All Father True;
When the skies were brass above her,
And the earth was cold and dim,
And when all her tears and pleadings
Brought no answer down from Him.
But alas, stern life the tyrant
Bade her take her burden up.
To her lips, so pale and shrunken,
Press again the bitter cup.
Up she rose, still tramping onward
Through the forest far and wide,
Till the May flowers bloomed and perished
And the sweet June roses died.
Till July and August brought her
Fruit and berries from their store;
Till the goldenrod and aster
Told her summer was no more;
Till the maples and the birches
Donned their robes of red and gold;
Till the birds were hastening southward
And the days were growing cold.
One chill morning in October
When the woods were brown and bare,
Through the streets of ancient Charlestown,
With a strange bewildered air,
Walked a gaunt and pallid woman,
Whose disheveled locks of brown
O’er her naked breast and shoulders
In the wind were streaming down.
Wondering glances fell upon her,
Women veiled their modest eyes
Ere they slowly ventured near her,
Drawn by pitying surprise.
“Tis some crazy one,” they muttered.
Back her tangled locks she tossed,
“O kind souls, take pity on me,
For I am not mad, but lost.”
Then she told her pitying story
In a strange disjointed way,
And with cold, white lips she murmured
“Take me back to Robert Grey.”
“But the river,” said they, pondering,
“We are on the Eastern side.
How crossed you its rapid water?
Deep the channel is, and wide!”
But she said she had not crossed it
In her strange erratic course.
She had wandered far to Northward,
Till she reached its fountain source
Through the dark Canadian forest,
And then blindly wandering on
Down the wild New Hampshire valleys
Her bewildered feet had gone.
Oh, the joy bells, sweet their ringing
On the frosty autumn air!
Oh, the boats across the waters,
How they leaped their tale to bear!
Oh, the wondrous golden sunset
On that blest October day,
When that weary wife was folded
To the heart of Robert Grey.
Text attr. Julia C Dorr.
