Who was the rider of the black horse? Do you not guess his name? Then bend down and gaze on that shattered limb, and you will see that it bears the mark of a former wound. That wound was received in the storming of Quebec. The rider of the black horse was Benedict Arnold.
Methought the stars were blinking bright, And the old brig's sails unfurl'd; I said: "I will sail to my love this night, At the other side of the world." I stepp'd aboard--we sail'd so fast-- The sun shot up from the bourn; But a dove that perch'd upon the mast Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn. O fair dove! O fond dove! And dove with the white, white breast-- Let me alone, the dream is my own, And my heart is full of rest.
My true love fares on this great hill, Feeding his sheep for aye; I look'd in his hut, but all was still, My love was gone away. I went to gaze in the forest creek, And the dove mourn'd on apace; No flame did flash, nor fair blue reek Rose up to show me his place. O last love! O first love! My love with the true, true heart, To think I have come to this your home, And yet--we are apart!
My love! He stood at my right hand, His eyes were grave and sweet; Methought he said: "In this far land, O, is it thus we meet? Ah, maid most dear, I am not here; I have no place, no part, No dwelling more by sea or shore, But only in thy heart." O fair dove! O fond dove! Till night rose over the bourn, The dove on the mast, as we sail'd fast, Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn.
"O Mary go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands o' Dee!" The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, And all alone went she.
The creeping tide came up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see; The blinding mist came down and hid the land-- And never home came she.
"Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- A tress o' golden hair, O' drowned maiden's hair Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, Among the stakes o' Dee."
They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel, crawling foam, The cruel, hungry foam,-- To her grave beside the sea; But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, Across the sands o' Dee.