Giles Watson's poetry and prose
The Bogles and the Moon-Lady
The Bogles and the Moon Lady
Gra’at pools o’ black watter,
Creepin’ trickles o’ green watter,
Squishy mools as’d soock owt in
As stept on un: the Moon hersel’
Were dead an’ buried under un.
On nights when the Moon Lady chose to shine,
She lit the bog about,
But in her darkness, dead things, bogles,
Crawling horrors came out,
So the Moon Lady stepped down from the sky
In a cloak to hide her glare
And she pulled down her hood to hide
Her yellow shining hair.
Down she went to the edge of the bog,
Watter here, an’ watter there;
Wavin’ tussocks, an trem’lin’ mools,
And black snags bent in air.
On great black cats the witches grinned,
And gave her the Evil Eye;
The will-o’-the wykes swung their lanterns
Fitfully in the sky,
The dead folk rose from stagnant pools,
With sockets filled with fire,
And slimy, dripping dead men’s hands
Slithered about the mire,
Beckoning and pointing and making her skin
Crawl with a cold, wet feel,
With palms as slimy as rotted fish,
Each finger thick as an eel.
By the greedy, gurgling water hole
Her cloak caught on a snag –
Coiled twice about her lucent wrist,
Clutched tight, began to drag.
She heard a pitiful, crying voice
A squishing in the muck,
And stumbling through the tussocks came
A lost man in the dark.
The gurning bogles crawled and crowded,
The dead hands plucked his back;
The will o’ tha wykes danced about
And led him off the track,
And all about him, the slimy things
Took on pleasing forms,
And when he clutched them in his hand
They turned to writhing worms.
The Moon Lady shook her gleaming head
Until her hood fell down,
And by her light he ran for home,
The fens lit all around.
“Damn you,” cried the witch-bodies,
“For the spoilin’ of our spells!”
The dead folk gripped her darkling cloak,
“We’ll drag you down to hell!”
And with a gargle, they pulled the Moon
Into the bubbling fen.
It seemed that she was drowned for good,
And doomed, the ways of men.
An’ tha boggarts crept an’ wailed
Roon’ the hooses, an keekit
In at tha winders, an sneepit
At tha latches. The Car-fo’ak
Mun sit tremmlin’ an shakin’
By tha foire, an’ could nor sleep
Nor rast, an’ still da’ays went,
An tha new moon niver corned.
The poor folk, struck with mortal fear,
Sought the wise-woman out
She looked deep into her brewing-pot,
Chuckled and cleared her throat:
“Each of your gobs you must stop with stones;
A hazel twig each must carry.
Look for a coffin; look for a candle;
Look for a cross: there tarry.”
" But wheer 'll us fin' her, mother?" says ane.
" An' hoo 'll us goa ?" says t'other.
" An wull na' tha bogles fett us?" says another, an' so on.
" Houts ! " said she, fratched loike. " Passel o' fools ! A can tell ye nae more; do as a tellt ee 'n fear nowt ; 'n' ef ye don't loike, than sta'ay by tha hoose, an' do wi' outen yer moon ef ye wull."
So all their gobs, they stopped with stones;
And a hazel twig each carried.
They found a coffin; found a candle;
Found a cross and tarried.
For they’d stumbled and stottered into the bog;
With flusterings in their ears,
And coffin and candle there they found:
Gaunt stones among the Cars,
And broiling out of a stagnant pool,
The Lady Moon aglare,
Cast off her hood, cast off her gown,
Let down her yellow hair.
The bogles screeched and shrunk away;
Will o’ th’ wykes were smothered;
The Moon Lady climbed the sky
The dead men’s hands were withered.
An, ma’rk my wo’ds, it be a’ true,
Fur ma gran, she seed the snag,
An’ tha green slimy watter at ‘s foot,
Wi’ its twae arms, fur a’ the warl’
Loike a gre’at Cross, an’ tha Moon
Scatterin’ the sperrits inter gra’at
Pools o’ black watter, creepin’
Trickles o’ green watter, squishy
Mools as’d soock owt in
As stept on un...
Song lyric by Giles Watson, 2013, based on a legend of the Lincolnshire Fens. According to Mrs Balfour, writing for the journal Folklore in 1891, this story “was obtained from a young girl of nine, a cripple, who stated that she had heard it from her ‘gran.’ But I think it was tinged by her own fancy, which seemed to lean to eerie things, and she certainly revelled in the gruesome descriptions, fairly making my flesh creep with her words and gestures. Portions in italic are only slightly edited versions of the original transcript. Much of the vocabulary of the rest of the song is also unchanged.
The Bogles and the Moon-Lady
The Bogles and the Moon Lady
Gra’at pools o’ black watter,
Creepin’ trickles o’ green watter,
Squishy mools as’d soock owt in
As stept on un: the Moon hersel’
Were dead an’ buried under un.
On nights when the Moon Lady chose to shine,
She lit the bog about,
But in her darkness, dead things, bogles,
Crawling horrors came out,
So the Moon Lady stepped down from the sky
In a cloak to hide her glare
And she pulled down her hood to hide
Her yellow shining hair.
Down she went to the edge of the bog,
Watter here, an’ watter there;
Wavin’ tussocks, an trem’lin’ mools,
And black snags bent in air.
On great black cats the witches grinned,
And gave her the Evil Eye;
The will-o’-the wykes swung their lanterns
Fitfully in the sky,
The dead folk rose from stagnant pools,
With sockets filled with fire,
And slimy, dripping dead men’s hands
Slithered about the mire,
Beckoning and pointing and making her skin
Crawl with a cold, wet feel,
With palms as slimy as rotted fish,
Each finger thick as an eel.
By the greedy, gurgling water hole
Her cloak caught on a snag –
Coiled twice about her lucent wrist,
Clutched tight, began to drag.
She heard a pitiful, crying voice
A squishing in the muck,
And stumbling through the tussocks came
A lost man in the dark.
The gurning bogles crawled and crowded,
The dead hands plucked his back;
The will o’ tha wykes danced about
And led him off the track,
And all about him, the slimy things
Took on pleasing forms,
And when he clutched them in his hand
They turned to writhing worms.
The Moon Lady shook her gleaming head
Until her hood fell down,
And by her light he ran for home,
The fens lit all around.
“Damn you,” cried the witch-bodies,
“For the spoilin’ of our spells!”
The dead folk gripped her darkling cloak,
“We’ll drag you down to hell!”
And with a gargle, they pulled the Moon
Into the bubbling fen.
It seemed that she was drowned for good,
And doomed, the ways of men.
An’ tha boggarts crept an’ wailed
Roon’ the hooses, an keekit
In at tha winders, an sneepit
At tha latches. The Car-fo’ak
Mun sit tremmlin’ an shakin’
By tha foire, an’ could nor sleep
Nor rast, an’ still da’ays went,
An tha new moon niver corned.
The poor folk, struck with mortal fear,
Sought the wise-woman out
She looked deep into her brewing-pot,
Chuckled and cleared her throat:
“Each of your gobs you must stop with stones;
A hazel twig each must carry.
Look for a coffin; look for a candle;
Look for a cross: there tarry.”
" But wheer 'll us fin' her, mother?" says ane.
" An' hoo 'll us goa ?" says t'other.
" An wull na' tha bogles fett us?" says another, an' so on.
" Houts ! " said she, fratched loike. " Passel o' fools ! A can tell ye nae more; do as a tellt ee 'n fear nowt ; 'n' ef ye don't loike, than sta'ay by tha hoose, an' do wi' outen yer moon ef ye wull."
So all their gobs, they stopped with stones;
And a hazel twig each carried.
They found a coffin; found a candle;
Found a cross and tarried.
For they’d stumbled and stottered into the bog;
With flusterings in their ears,
And coffin and candle there they found:
Gaunt stones among the Cars,
And broiling out of a stagnant pool,
The Lady Moon aglare,
Cast off her hood, cast off her gown,
Let down her yellow hair.
The bogles screeched and shrunk away;
Will o’ th’ wykes were smothered;
The Moon Lady climbed the sky
The dead men’s hands were withered.
An, ma’rk my wo’ds, it be a’ true,
Fur ma gran, she seed the snag,
An’ tha green slimy watter at ‘s foot,
Wi’ its twae arms, fur a’ the warl’
Loike a gre’at Cross, an’ tha Moon
Scatterin’ the sperrits inter gra’at
Pools o’ black watter, creepin’
Trickles o’ green watter, squishy
Mools as’d soock owt in
As stept on un...
Song lyric by Giles Watson, 2013, based on a legend of the Lincolnshire Fens. According to Mrs Balfour, writing for the journal Folklore in 1891, this story “was obtained from a young girl of nine, a cripple, who stated that she had heard it from her ‘gran.’ But I think it was tinged by her own fancy, which seemed to lean to eerie things, and she certainly revelled in the gruesome descriptions, fairly making my flesh creep with her words and gestures. Portions in italic are only slightly edited versions of the original transcript. Much of the vocabulary of the rest of the song is also unchanged.