{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_20249/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_20249","id":"gutenberg_20249","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/20249","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Folk literature, English","Folklore -- England","Tales -- England"],"text":"Produced by Chris Curnow, David Garcia and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\nG.W.R: The Line to Legend Land.\n\nTHE ABBOT'S WAY              Page 24\nTAVISTOCK                    Page 20\nBRENT TOR                    Page  4\nBUCKLAND ABBEY               Page 16\nDEAN COMBE                   Page 12\nTHE PARSON AND THE CLERK     Page  8\n\nVol. Two Front End]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLEGEND LAND\n\n\n    Being a collection of some of the _OLD TALES_ told\n    in those Western Parts of Britain served by the\n    _GREAT WESTERN RAILWAY_, now retold by _LYONESSE_\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\nVOLUME TWO\n\n\n        _Published in 1922 by_\n       THE GREAT WESTERN RAILWAY\n  [FELIX J. C. POLE, GENERAL MANAGER]\n      PADDINGTON STATION, LONDON\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS AND ILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n  The Church the Devil Stole                       _Page_ 4\n  The Parson and the Clerk                                8\n  The Weaver of Dean Combe                               12\n  The Demon Who Helped Drake                             16\n  The Samson of Tavistock                                20\n  The Midnight Hunter of the Moor                        24\n  The Lost Land of Lyonesse                              28\n  The Piskie's Funeral                                   32\n  The Spectre Coach                                      36\n  St. Neot, the Pigmy Saint                              40\n  The Old Man of Cury                                    44\n  The Hooting Carn                                       48\n  The Padstow May Day Songs (_Supplement_)               52\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  This is a reprint in book form of the second series of\n  _The Line to Legend Land_ leaflets, together with a\n  Supplement, \"The Padstow May Day Songs.\"\n\n  The Map at the beginning provides a guide to the localities\n  of the six Devon legends; that at the back to those of\n  Cornwall.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  _Printed by_ SPOTTISWOODE, BALLANTYNE & COMPANY LIMITED,\n         _One New Street Square, London, E.C.4_\n\n\n\n\nFOREWORD\n\n\nThe western parts of our country are richer in legend than any other\npart. Perhaps this is because of the Celtic love of poetry and symbolism\ninherent in the blood of the people of the West; perhaps because of\ninspiration drawn from the wild hills and bleak moors of the lands in\nwhich they live; perhaps because life is, and always was, quieter there,\nand people have more time to remember the tales of other days than in\nbusier, more prosaic, districts.\n\nMost of the Devon legends cluster around the grim wastes of Dartmoor,\nand, like that wonderful stretch of country, are wild and awe-inspiring.\nThe devil and his wicked works enter largely into them, and there is\nreason to believe them to be among the oldest tales known to us.\nPossibly they were not new when the hut circles of the Moor were\ninhabited and Grimspound was a busy village.\n\nSome of the Cornish stories told in this series, like the story of\nLyonesse and of Parson Dodge and the Spectre Coach, have their beginning\nin historical fact; yet into the latter story has been woven a tale that\nis centuries older, in origin, than the days of the eccentric priest of\nTalland.\n\nBut old tales, like old wine, need nothing but themselves to advertise\nthem. In their time they have entertained--who can say how many hearers\nthrough the ages? And they are still good--read or told--to amuse as\nmany more.\n\n                                                              LYONESSE\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE CHURCH THE DEVIL STOLE\n\n\nMost travellers to the West know queer little Brent Tor, that isolated\nchurch-crowned peak that stands up defiantly a mile or two from Lydford,\nseeming, as it were, a sentry watching the West for grim Dartmoor that\nrises twice its height behind it. Burnt Tor, they say, was the old name\nof this peak, because, seen from a distance, the brave little mountain\nresembles a flame bursting upwards from the earth. Others--with less\nimagination and perhaps more knowledge--would have us believe that Brent\nTor was once a volcano, and that it really did burn in ages long since.\n\nBut the old folk of the neighbourhood care less for the name of their\nTor than for the strange story of the church that crowns its summit.\n\nEver so long ago, they will tell you, the good folk of the lower lands\naround the foot of the hill decided to build themselves a church. They\nhad long needed one; so long that the Devil, who roamed about Dartmoor,\nhad begun to consider that such an irreligious community was surely\nmarked down for his own.\n\nThat is why, when he came upon the people one day setting to work to\nbuild a church, he was overcome with fury.\n\nBut he seems to have thought it all out carefully, and to have decided\nto let them go on for a while, and so, week after week, at the foot of\nBrent Tor, the little church grew.\n\nAt last it was finished, and the good folk were preparing great\nfestivities for its dedication when, during one dark autumn night, the\nchurch disappeared.\n\nIn the greatest distress they bemoaned their sad plight, but they were\nquick to attribute the evil action to the Prince of Darkness, and to\nshow him that they were not to be intimidated they decided to begin at\nonce to build another church. Throughout the day they made their plans,\nand retired to rest that night determined to start on their pious work\nnext morning.\n\nBut when they woke in the morning they saw with amazement their own\nchurch perched high on the hill above them. The Devil had stolen it, and\nto mock the villagers had replaced it on the hilltop, where, he thought,\nhaving dominion over the powers of the air, he would be able to defeat\ntheir designs.\n\nThe people, however, thought otherwise. They sent in haste for the\nnearest bishop, and with him proceeded to the top of Brent Tor. And,\nsince St. Michael looks after hilltops, to him they dedicated their\nchurch.\n\nHardly had the service finished when the Devil, passing by, looked in\nto jeer, as he thought, at the foolish folk he had deceived. But on the\nsummit of the Tor he met St. Michael.\n\nThe Archangel fell upon the Evil One and tumbled him straightway down\nthe hill; then, to make sure of his discomfiture, hurled a huge rock\nafter him. And there at the base of Brent Tor you may see the very rock\nto this day.\n\nIf you climb to the top of the hill you will get, on a fine day, one of\nthe most beautiful views in the West. On one side is Dartmoor in all its\nrugged glory; on the other, distant, blue and mysterious, the uplands\nof the Bodmin moors.\n\nLydford, from which you can best reach Brent Tor, is famous for its wild\ngorge. It stands on the edge of Dartmoor itself, and from it country of\nwonderful beauty may easily be reached. All around are hills and\nheather-carpeted moorland; yet a short railway journey will take you\nfrom this far-away village to busy Plymouth, Okehampton, or Launceston,\nthe border town of Cornwall.\n\nHere, where winds sweep from any direction across great wastes of moor,\nor from the sea, health and quiet are to be found more easily than in\nany popular holiday resort or fashionable spa.\n\n[Illustration: _Brent Tor Church_]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE PARSON AND THE CLERK\n\n\nAll real old stories of long ago should begin with \"Once upon a time,\"\nand so, once upon a time there was a Bishop of Exeter who lay very ill\nat Dawlish, on the South Devon coast, and among those who visited him\nfrequently was the parson of an inland parish who was ambitious enough\nto hope that, should the good bishop die, he would be chosen to fill his\nplace.\n\nThis parson was a man of violent temper, and his continued visits to\nthe sick man did not improve this, for his journey was a long and dreary\none, and the bishop, he thought, took an unconscionable time in dying.\nBut he had to maintain his reputation for piety, and so it happened that\non a winter night he was riding towards Dawlish through the rain,\nguided, as was his custom, by his parish clerk.\n\nThat particular night the clerk had lost his way, and, long after he and\nhis master should have been in comfortable quarters at Dawlish, they\nwere wandering about on the high rough ground of Haldon, some distance\nfrom the village. At last, in anger, the parson turned upon his clerk\nand rebuked him violently. \"You are useless,\" he said; \"I would rather\nhave the devil for a guide than you.\" The clerk mumbled some excuse, and\npresently the two came upon a peasant, mounted upon a moor pony, to whom\nthey explained their plight.\n\nThe stranger at once offered to guide them, and very soon all three had\nreached the outskirts of the little coast town. Both parson and clerk\nwere wet through, and when their guide, stopping by an old, tumble-down\nhouse, invited them to enter and take some refreshment, both eagerly\nagreed. They entered the house and found there a large company of\nwild-looking men engaged in drinking from heavy black-jacks, and singing\nloud choruses. The parson and his servant made their way to a quiet\ncorner and enjoyed a good meal, then, feeling better, agreed to stay for\na while and join their boisterous companions.\n\nBut they stayed for a very long while. The drink flowed freely and both\ngrew uproarious, the parson singing songs with the best of the company\nand shouting the choruses louder than any. In this manner they spent the\nwhole night, and it was not until dawn broke that the priest suggested\nmoving onward. So none too soberly he called for the horses.\n\nAt this moment the news arrived that the bishop was dead. This excited\nthe parson, who wished at once to get to work to further his ambitious\ndesigns, so he pushed the clerk into the saddle and hastily mounted\nhimself. But the horses would not move. The parson, in a passion, cried,\n\"I believe the devil is in the horses!\"\n\n\"I believe he is,\" said the clerk thickly, and with that a roar of\nunearthly laughter broke out all around them. Then the now terrified men\nobserved that their boisterous friends were dancing about in glee and\neach had turned into a leering demon. The house in which they had passed\nthe night had completely disappeared, and the road in which they stood\nwas transformed into the sea-shore, upon which huge waves were breaking,\nsome already submerging the clerk.\n\nWith a wild cry of terror the parson lashed once more at his horse,\nbut without avail. He felt himself growing stiff and dizzy--and then\nconsciousness passed from him.\n\nNeither he nor his clerk ever returned to their parish, but that morning\nthe people of Dawlish saw two strange red rocks standing off the cliffs,\nand later, learning this story, they realised that the demons had changed\nthe evil priest and his man into these forms.\n\nTime and weather have wrought many changes in the Parson and Clerk\nRocks, not the least curious being to carve upon the Parson Rock the\nsemblance of the two revellers. From certain positions you may see\nto-day the profiles of both men, the parson as it were in his pulpit,\nand the clerk at his desk beneath him.\n\nThe red cliffs around Dawlish make the place peculiarly attractive at\nfirst sight, and the attraction is not lessened by familiarity with the\ntown. It enjoys the best of the famous South Devon climate; warm in\nwinter and ever cooled by the sea breeze in summer, it is an excellent\nholiday centre. Historic Exeter is close at hand and Dartmoor within\nafternoon excursion distance.\n\n[Illustration: \"_The Parson and the Clerk_\"]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE WEAVER OF DEAN COMBE\n\n\nAbout a mile outside Buckfastleigh, on the edge of Dartmoor, a little\nstream, the Dean Burn, comes tumbling down from the hills through a\nnarrow valley of peculiar beauty. A short distance up this valley a\nwaterfall drops into a deep hollow known as the \"Hound's Pool.\" How this\nname arose is an old story.\n\nAccording to the legend, hundreds of years ago, there was living in the\nneighbouring hamlet of Dean Combe a wealthy weaver named Knowles. He was\nfamous throughout those parts of Devon for his skill and industry. But\nin due course he died and was buried.\n\nOn the day after the funeral, hearing a strange noise, Knowles' son ran\nto his father's work-room, where, to his alarm, he saw the dead man\nseated at his loom working away just as he had done day after day, year\nafter year, in life. In terror the young man fled from the house, and\nsought the parson of Dean Prior.\n\nThe good priest was at first sceptical, but he returned with the\nfrightened man to the house. As soon as the two had entered the door the\nparson's doubts vanished, for sure enough, from an upper chamber, came\nthe familiar, unmistakable sound of the loom at work.\n\nSo the parson went to the foot of the staircase and shouted to the\nghostly weaver: \"Knowles, come down! This is no place for thee.\"\n\n\"In a minute, parson,\" came the reply; \"just wait till I've worked out\nthis shuttle.\"\n\n\"No,\" said the parson, \"come thee at once; thou hast worked long enough\non this earth.\"\n\nSo the spirit came down, and the parson led it outside the house. Then\ntaking a handful of earth, which he had previously secured from the\nchurchyard, he flung it into the ghost's face, and instantly the weaver\nturned into a black hound.\n\n\"Now, follow me,\" the parson commanded; the grim dog obediently came\nto heel. The pair then proceeded into the woods, which, so they say, as\nsoon as the two entered, were shaken by a violent whirlwind. But at last\nthe priest led his charge to the edge of the pool below the waterfall,\nthen producing a walnut-shell with a hole in it, handed it to the hound\nand addressed it.\n\n\"Knowles,\" he began, \"this shows me plainly that in life thou tookest\nmore heed of worldly gain than of immortality, and thou didst bargain\nwith the powers of evil. There is but one hope of rest for thee. When\nthou shalt have dipped out this pool with the shell I have given thee,\nthou shalt find peace, but not before. Go, work out thy salvation.\"\n\nWith a mournful howl that was heard as far as Widdicombe in the Moor,\nthe hound leapt into the pool to begin its hopeless labour, and there,\nexactly at midnight or midday, they say, you may still see it at its\ntask.\n\nBuckfastleigh is on a branch line that runs up from Totnes, skirting\nDartmoor, to Ashburton. All around is some of the most glorious scenery\nin Devon. Buckfast Abbey, founded in 1148 and for centuries a ruin, was\npurchased by French Benedictines in 1882, and is now a live and busy\nmonastery once again.\n\nJust beyond Dean Combe is Dean Prior, a place of the greatest literary\ninterest, for it was the home of the poet Herrick for many years.\n\nThe country all about abounds in objects of beauty and interest, yet is\nall too often neglected by the holiday-maker at the neighbouring seaside\ntowns a few miles away, or the scurrying motorist speeding down along\nthe Plymouth road.\n\n[Illustration: _Buckfast Abbey_]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEMON WHO HELPED DRAKE\n\n\nAll the demons of whom the old folks tell in the West Country were not\nevil spirits. Some, like that one who helped Sir Francis Drake, worked\ngood magic for the benefit of those to whom they attached themselves.\n\nTo Drake's demon a number of good deeds are attributed. One story they\ntell of him is of those days when the news of the fitting out of the\nmighty Spanish Armada had caused a thrill of apprehension to sweep\nthrough the country. The danger that threatened was very great, and\nDrake, like all of those who were charged with the safeguarding of our\nshores, was vastly worried, although he kept his worries to himself.\n\nAnd one day, as the story goes, the great admiral was sitting, weighed\ndown with anxiety, making and remaking his plans, on Devil's Point, a\npromontory that runs out into Plymouth Sound. As he was thinking, almost\nunconsciously he began whittling a stick. How, he wondered, could he\nfind enough ships to combat the enormous force the King of Spain was\nsending against him?\n\nLooking up from his reverie, at length, across the Sound, he started in\nhappy surprise, for floating quite close to the shore he saw a number of\nwell-armed gunboats; each chip that he had cut from the stick having\nbeen so transformed by the magic of his friendly demon.\n\nLater, when Drake had achieved his great victory over the Spaniards,\nQueen Elizabeth gave him Buckland Abbey. When he took possession, the\nlegend goes, there was great need for stables and outhouses, and\nbuilding work was set in train at once.\n\nAfter his first night there, one of Drake's servants was amazed to find\nhow much building had been done, and, feeling that something unusual\nmust be going on during the hours of darkness, he secreted himself\nin a tree at dusk the next evening to see what happened. There he fell\nasleep, but towards midnight he was awakened by the tramp of animals\nand the creaking of wheels. Looking down, he saw several ox teams\napproaching, each dragging a wagon filled with building materials and\nled by a weird spectre form.\n\nAs the first team passed by, the spectre, urging the weary beasts on,\nplucked from the earth the tree in which the servant was hiding, in\norder to beat them. The unfortunate servant was cast to the ground, and,\npicking himself up, ran in terror to the house.\n\nHis violent fall injured him seriously, and they say that the fright\nmade him half-witted for the rest of his life. Still, he recovered\nsufficiently to tell others of what he had seen, and to explain the\nmystery of the miraculous speed with which Buckland Abbey's outbuildings\nwere constructed.\n\nBuckland Abbey lies between Plymouth and Tavistock, close to the banks\nof the pretty River Tavy. Drake built his house there on the site of a\nthirteenth-century abbey, some remains of which are still to be found.\n\nPreserved in Buckland Abbey is Drake's Drum, the beating of which in\ntime of national danger would, so they say, bring the great Elizabethan\nsailor back from his ocean grave by the Spanish Main to fight once more\nfor his country.\n\nPlymouth, the port with which Drake is so closely associated, is a town\nbrimful of interest, magnificently situated on high ground overlooking\nthe sea. From famous Plymouth Hoe, the scene of the historic game of\nbowls, a view of unequalled charm may be obtained. Out at sea, the\nEddystone Lighthouse is seen, and east and west the rugged shores of the\nSound, always alive with shipping, meet the eye.\n\nAnd although Plymouth is over 226 miles from London, it is the first\nstopping-place of the famous Cornish Riviera Express, which leaves\nPaddington each week-morning at 10.30 and arrives at Plymouth only four\nhours and seven minutes later.\n\n[Illustration: _Buckland Abbey_]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE SAMSON OF TAVISTOCK\n\n\nIn the beautifully situated old town of Tavistock there lived, just over\na thousand years ago, a man of huge stature and great strength named\nOrdulph, of whom some strange stories are told. Ordulph was the son\nof Orgar, the then Earl of Devon, who was the founder of Tavistock's\nwonderful old abbey. Some of Ordulph's huge bones may be seen to-day in\na chest in Tavistock church, to which place they were taken when his\ngigantic coffin was discovered beneath the abbey ruins many years ago.\n\nAs the old stories go, Ordulph used at times to amuse himself by\nstanding with one foot on either side of the River Tavy, having\npreviously ordered his men to organise a great drive of wild beasts from\nthe Dartmoor forests above the town. The animals he caused to be driven\nbetween his legs, while he, stooping down, would slay them with a small\nknife, striking their heads off into the running stream.\n\nOn one occasion, they say, he rode to Exeter with King Edward of the\nSaxons. When the two with their retinue arrived before the city and\ndemanded admission, there was some delay in throwing open the gates.\n\nThis Ordulph took as an affront to the King, and, leaping from his\nenormous black charger, he approached the portcullis and with his hand\ntore the ponderous thing from its sockets and broke it into small\npieces.\n\nThen, striding up to the strong iron-bound gates, with a kick he burst\nopen bolts and bars, and proceeded to lift the gates from their hinges.\nAfter that, with his shoulder he pushed down a considerable portion of\nthe city walls, then strode across the ruins he had made into the now\nterrified city, and bade the alarmed townsfolk to be more careful next\ntime to receive their King properly, lest worse things should happen to\nthem.\n\nKing Edward, they say, was as much concerned as the citizens of Exeter\nabout this stupendous exhibition of strength displayed by his companion.\nHe was fearful at first that so violent a man must be in league with the\ndevil; but apparently he was satisfied that this was not the case, for\nOrdulph lived a very pious life in his latter years, and contributed\nlarge sums to the endowment of the abbey his father had founded.\n\nTavistock still retains many remains of its once mighty abbey. The town,\nsituated as it is in a picturesque valley through which the beautiful\nTavy rushes, crystal clear, from the moors, is one of the most\nattractive in all Devon. It is the finest centre for exploring the\nwestern part of Dartmoor, for the moorland creeps down to within a short\nwalking distance of the town itself.\n\nFine fishing may be had in the neighbouring streams, there is a good\ngolf course, and the country all around abounds in objects of great\nnatural beauty and historic interest.\n\nExeter, the cathedral city which was the scene of Ordulph's Samson-like\nfeat, is thirty-three miles away by a road that crosses the very heart\nof Dartmoor, a wild, beautiful highway that rises in places to well over\n1,200 feet; and sixteen-and-a-half miles to the south is Plymouth, from\nwhich Tavistock is easily reached by train.\n\nThere are few places in the West Country more attractive than this old\ntown in the moors, so richly endowed by time and by nature.\n\n[Illustration: _Tavistock Abbey_]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE MIDNIGHT HUNTER OF THE MOOR\n\n\nRunning across the southern part of the heart of wild Dartmoor is a\nvery ancient road. \"The Abbot's Way\" they call it, and antiquaries hold\nvaried opinions as to when it was made, and even as to where it led to\nand from. To-day, much of this old trackway has gone back to nature and\ncannot be distinguished from the rugged moorland across which it passes,\nbut some stretches of it survive in a strange green path marked here and\nthere by a boundary stone or a much-weathered Celtic cross.\n\nBut the old stories--tales perhaps even older than the road--tell that\nthe Abbot's Way is the favourite hunting ground of the Wish Hounds or\nYell Hounds, an eerie spectre-pack that hunts across the wildest parts\nof the moor on moonless nights.\n\nStrange, gruesome tales are told by those who, benighted or lost in the\nfog, have stumbled home through the dark of a winter night across the\ngrim moorland. They tell--half dazed with fear--as they reach at last\nsome house and welcome human companionship, of the wild baying of the\nhounds that drifted through the murk night to their ears, or of the\nsudden vision of the pack passing at whirlwind speed across bog and\nmarsh urged onward by a grim black figure astride a giant dark horse\nfrom whose smoking nostrils came flame and fire.\n\nThe description of this figure, \"The Midnight Hunter of the Moor,\"\nseldom varies, although stories of the Wish Hounds differ from time\nto time.\n\nSome say that they are headless, and that their blood-curdling cries\nseem to emerge from a phosphorescent glow of evil smoke that hovers\nabout the place where the head should be. Others describe them as gaunt,\ndark beasts with huge white fangs and lolling red tongues.\n\nUp on the grim wild moors it is not hard at midnight, through the\nroaring of the wind, or in the stillness of a calm night broken only by\nthe weird cry of some nocturnal bird or the distant sound of a rushing\nstream, to imagine, far away, the baying of this spectre-pack.\n\nThe old country folk hold that the man or beast who hears the devilish\nmusic of the Wish Hounds will surely die within the year, and that\nany unhappy mortal that stands in the way of the hunt will be pursued\nuntil dawn, and if caught will inevitably lose his soul; for the dark\nhuntsman, they say, is the devil, whose power is great over that rugged\ncountry between sunset and sunrise.\n\nEven to-day some of the older people will tell you stories of escapes\nthey have had from the Midnight Hunter, or of the fate that befell some\nfriend or neighbour very many years ago who never returned from a night\njourney across the moor.\n\nBut grim as it may be after nightfall, the country which the Abbot's Way\ntraverses is one of amazing beauty. You may pick up this old track on\nthe moors a mile or two from Princetown, or strike north to join it from\nSouth Brent or Ivybridge station. To the west there is a stretch of it\nclearly marked near Sheepstor where it crosses the head-waters of the\nPlym.\n\nSome think the old Way got its name because it was the means of\ncommunication between the Abbeys of Buckfast on one side of the moor and\nTavistock on the other. Others say it was an old wool-trading track to\nthe west.\n\nDartmoor all around this district is at its best. It is a riot of rugged\nboulder, fern, and heather, through which rushing streams, full of\ntrout, flow swiftly southward to the Channel. The Tors here are not the\nhighest of the moor, yet many of them rise well above the 1,500 feet\nlevel.\n\nIt is a country easy of access, for the Great Western main line skirts\nthe southern edge of Dartmoor between Totnes and Plymouth, and railway\nand coaching services enable the tourist to visit some of the most\nremote parts of the moor in a day trip from Torquay, Dartmouth,\nTeignmouth, or in fact any of the South Devon seaside resorts between\nDawlish and Plymouth. But the visitor who wishes to explore Southern\nDartmoor at leisure will find Newton Abbot the most convenient centre.\n\n[Illustration: _The Abbot's Way_]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE LOST LAND OF LYONESSE\n\n\nThere is a lot of truth mingled with the old legends that tell of\nthe lost land of Lyonesse, a fertile and prosperous country that\nonce extended west from Cornwall as far as the Scillies. According to\nthose old traditions a vast number of villages and 140 churches were\noverwhelmed on that day, over eight hundred years ago, when the angry\nsea broke in and drowned fertile Lyonesse, and now, as an old rhyme\nhas it:\n\n  \"_Beneath Land's End and Scilly rocks_\n  _Sunk lies a town that Ocean mocks._\"\n\n\nOn that fatal day, November 11, 1099, a mighty storm raged all about our\ncoasts, but the gale was of unparalleled severity in the West. Those who\nhave seen a winter gale blowing across the sea that now flows above the\nLost Land will know that it is very easy to believe that those giant\nangry waves could break down any poor construction of man's hand\nintended to keep the wild waters in check.\n\nFor Lyonesse, they say, was stolen by the sea gradually. Here a bit and\nthere a bit would be submerged after some winter storm, until came this\ngrim November night, when the sea made a clean sweep of the country and\nrushed, with stupendous speed, across the flat wooded lands until it was\nbrought to a halt by the massive cliffs of what is now the Land's End\npeninsula.\n\nThere was a Trevilian, an ancestor of the old Cornish family of that\nname, who only just escaped with his life from this deluge. He had\nforeseen what was coming and had removed his farm stock and his family\nfrom his Lyonesse estate, and was making one further journey to his\nthreatened home when the sea broke in upon it. Trevilian, mounted\non his fleetest horse, just beat the waves, and there is a cave near\nPerranuthnoe which, they say, was the place of refuge to which the\nsturdy horse managed to drag his master through the angry waters.\n\nThere used to be another memorial of this great inundation at Sennen\nCove, near the Land's End, where for centuries stood an ancient chapel\nwhich it was said a Lord of Goonhilly erected as a thanksgiving for his\nescape from the flood that drowned Lyonesse.\n\nTo-day all that is left of the lost land are the beautiful Scilly\nIslands and the cluster of rocks between the Scillies and Land's End,\nknown as the Seven Stones. These rocks are probably the last genuine bit\nof old Lyonesse, for their Cornish name is Lethowsow, which was what the\nold Cornish called Lyonesse. Even now the local fishermen refer to the\nSeven Stones as \"The City,\" for tradition tells that there was situated\nthe principal town of the drowned land, and stories are told of how on\ncalm days ruined buildings may be discerned beneath the waters near\nLethowsow, and that in times past fishing-nets have brought up old\nweathered domestic utensils from the sea bottom near at hand.\n\nA lightship now marks the Seven Stones, and at low water on a rough day\nthe sight of the huge breakers dashing themselves into foam upon the\nrocks is an awe-inspiring one.\n\nThe Scillies lie twenty-seven miles west of Land's End and are reached\nby a regular service of steamers from Penzance. The journey across is\nfascinating, and magnificent views of the rugged coast are to be\nobtained.\n\nAnd the Islands themselves provide a perfect place for a lazy holiday.\nA winter climate they seldom know; flowers bloom right through the year,\nand sea fishing and boating there are ideal. The Scillies consist of a\ngroup of about forty granite islands, only a few of which are inhabited.\nMany of the islets are joined together by bars of sand at low tide.\n\nThough in the Scillies you may feel very far away from the great world,\nquaint, fascinating Penzance, from which you start, is very near--in\ntime--from London. It is only six and a-half hours from Paddington,\nalthough over 300 miles have to be traversed in the rail journey.\n\n[Illustration: _The Seven Stones_]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE PISKIE'S FUNERAL\n\n\nThe sand-hills that abound near the church of Lelant, by St. Ives, are\nnow famous the world over for providing one of the most excellent golf\ncourses in this country. But in the far-away simpler days, before golf\nhad come south, and when Cornwall was a distant land seldom visited by\nstrangers, the Lelant sand-hills had a different fame.\n\nIn those days they used to say that they were the favourite\nmeeting-place of the piskies, or, as folks from other parts of England\nwould call them, fairies. Strange stories were told by the people\nof Lelant of the moonlight revels indulged in by the small folk in\nsheltered corners of that great stretch of sand-dunes that borders the\nHayle river.\n\nOne of the strangest stories is that of a piskie funeral, seen with his\nown eyes by a respectable villager ever so many years ago.\n\nOld Richard, who witnessed this amazing sight, was returning late\none night from St. Ives, whither he had been in search of fish. As he\nascended the hill towards his home, he thought he heard the bell of\nLelant church tolling. This struck him as being curious, for it was\njust midnight, so he went out of his way to have a look at the church,\nin case anything was wrong.\n\nArriving in sight of the building, he saw faint lights within; and still\nthe bell continued to toll, though, as he noticed then, in a strange\nway, with a queer muffled sound that aroused no echo.\n\nRichard then crept forward to see what was happening. Peering cautiously\nthrough one of the windows, he was at first unable to distinguish\nanything, although a strange light illuminated the whole church. But\nafter a few moments he was able to discern a funeral procession moving\nslowly up the centre aisle. It consisted of the little people, crowds of\nwhom filled the church. Each piskie looked very sad, although, instead\nof being dressed in mourning, each carried a gay wreath or garland of\nroses or myrtle.\n\nPresently the watcher beheld a bier borne by six piskies, and on it was\nthe body--no bigger than a small doll, he said--of a beautiful lady.\nThe mournful procession moved forward to the sanctuary, where Richard\nobserved two tiny figures digging a wee grave quite close to the altar\ntable. When they had completed their task, the whole company crowded\naround while the pale, lovely corpse was gently lowered into the earth.\n\nAt this moment all the piskies burst into the saddest notes of\nlamentation, tearing their wreaths and garlands asunder and casting the\nflowers into the grave. Then one of the midget grave-diggers threw in a\nshovelful of earth and the most piteous cry of sorrow went up from the\nsmall folk, who wailed, \"Our Queen is dead! Our Queen is dead!\"\n\nOld Richard was so much affected by this that he joined in the cry of\nlamentation. But no sooner was his voice heard than all the lights were\nextinguished and the piskies fled in consternation in every direction.\nRichard himself was so much alarmed that he ran for his home, firmly\nconvinced that he was fortunate to have escaped with his life.\n\nLelant Church and the sand-hills remain to-day much as they were on that\nlong-ago midnight when Richard attended the piskie's funeral, but\nnowadays the country round about has become one of the most favoured, by\nvisitors, in all Cornwall.\n\nLelant with its golf course, pretty Carbis Bay with its wonderful bathing\nbeach, and St. Ives, beloved of artists and those in search of rest\nand health, a few miles further on, are all places that exercise the\nstrongest fascination for those who have once visited them. The district\nis singularly attractive to the tourist; wild, rugged coast or grim\nmoorland scenery is to be found within easy walking distance, while\nnestling in between the forbidding cliffs are pleasant sheltered sandy\ncoves where one may bathe in safety or laze away the sunny hours,\nprotected from the harsher winds that sweep the uplands.\n\nLarge modern hotels are to be found at St. Ives and Carbis Bay, and the\nsailing and sea-fishing of the Hayle Estuary are as good as any in all\nthat favoured land of Cornwall.\n\n[Illustration: _Lelant Church_]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE SPECTRE COACH\n\n\nIn the days of Good Queen Anne, the parson of Talland, a quaint little\nsea-girt village near Looe, was a singular man named Dodge. Parson\nDodge's reputation in that neighbourhood was that of being able to lay\nghosts and command evil spirits, and although the country folk were\nrather terrified of their vicar, they had the utmost faith in his\nmarvellous powers.\n\nAnd it happened that the good folk of Lanreath, a few miles away, were\nsuffering severely from a wild spirit that frequented the high moor in\ntheir parish. The ghost was that, they said, of an avaricious landowner\nwho had wasted his fortune in lawsuits, attempting unjustly to seize\nfrom the villagers a wide stretch of common-land. Disappointment had\nkilled him, but in the spirit world he could find no rest, for he used\nto return of nights to the land he had coveted, and drive wildly about\nin a black coach drawn by six sable, headless horses, much to the terror\nof the country folk.\n\nSo the rector of Lanreath decided at last to appeal to Parson Dodge to\ncome over and exorcise the wandering spirit. Parson Dodge agreed, and\nupon the appointed night he and the rector rode out on to the haunted\nmoor to see what could be done about the bad business.\n\nIt was a grim, barren spot that they reached at last and the rector did\nnot at all like his task. But Parson Dodge bade him cheer up, saying\nthat he never yet met the ghost that he couldn't best. So the two\nparsons dismounted and tramped up and down for an hour, expecting every\nmoment the arrival of the spectre coach.\n\nWhen at last midnight had passed and nothing had happened, they decided\nto abandon their vigil and return some other night. So, taking leave of\none another, they separated, the rector to take a short ride to his\nhome, Parson Dodge going a mile across the moor to the road that led him\nback to Talland vicarage.\n\nDodge had been riding about five minutes when, without any apparent\nreason, his mare shied, then stood stock-still. The parson tried to urge\nher on, but she refused; then he dismounted and tried to lead her, but\nthat failed too. So he concluded that he must be intended to return,\nand, remounting, he set the mare off back to the haunted moor.\n\nShe went cross-country through the murky night like the wind, and in\na very few minutes Dodge was again on the spot where he had left his\nbrother priest. There the mare shied once more and showed every sign of\nfear, and the parson, looking about him, espied a short distance off the\ngruesome spectre he had originally come to meet.\n\nThere was the sooty-black coach, the dark, headless steeds, and, what\nthoroughly alarmed him, a grim cloaked figure urging his team at a\ngallop along a path in which lay the prostrate form of his friend the\nrector of Lanreath.\n\nParson Dodge set his mare, despite her fears, straight for the\napproaching coach, uttering his prayers of exorcism the while. With the\nfirst words the dusky team swerved and a sepulchral voice came from the\ndriver, saying: \"Dodge is come! I must be gone.\" With that the spirit\nwhipped up his horses and disappeared at a tremendous pace across the\nmoor, and was never seen again.\n\nThe parson then dismounted and was able to revive the unconscious rector\nand carry him safely home, for his own horse, startled at the appearance\nof the spectre, had thrown its rider and bolted.\n\nTalland, the home of the old parson, is a fascinating little village\non the coast, between the two Looes--East and West--and picturesque\nPolperro, where rugged cliffs on either side descend to form a sheltered\nlittle bay.\n\nLooe is a quaint fishing town straggling on each side of the estuary\nof the river of the same name. You reach it by a branch railway from\nLiskeard, on the Great Western main line. It is an ideal place in which\nto spend a quiet holiday. The coast east and west is typically Cornish,\nrugged and wild, yet pierced every few miles by some sheltered cove\nor inlet.\n\nLooe itself, protected from the cold winds, enjoys a beautiful climate,\nparticularly mild in winter. Coast and moorland walks abound; there is\na golf course close at hand, and the sea fishing is excellent.\n\n[Illustration: _Talland Church_]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nST. NEOT, THE PIGMY SAINT\n\n\nOf all the vast company of saints peculiar to Cornwall, St. Neot is\nsurely the strangest, for he was, so the old traditions have it, a\npigmy, perfectly formed, yet only fifteen inches in height. There are\nvery many stories told of this tiny holy man, and most of them seem to\nshow that he wielded a great power over all animals.\n\nOne of the prettiest stories is of the time when St. Neot presided over\nhis abbey and there came one night thieves to the monastic farm and\nstole all the monks' plough oxen. The poor brothers had not the money to\npurchase other beasts, and seed-time was upon them with their fields yet\nunploughed. Ruin seemed certain until the good little abbot appealed to\nthe wild beasts to come to their aid. And then, to the amazement of the\nmonks, there came from the surrounding forests wild stags, who docilely\noffered their necks to the yoke and drew the heavy ploughs.\n\nEach night the stags were released, and they went off to the woods; but\neach succeeding morning they returned to continue their task.\n\nThe news of this miraculous happening spread rapidly abroad and came at\nlast to the ears of the thieves. They were so deeply impressed by the\nstory that they returned the stolen oxen at once and promised never\nagain to pursue their evil ways. So the stags were released from their\nself-appointed labour, but ever after, they say, each bore a white ring\nlike a yoke about its neck, and each enjoyed a charmed life, for no\narrow or spear of a hunter could hurt it.\n\nAnother story that is told is that of St. Neot and the hunted doe. While\nthe good saint was seated in contemplation by his well, there burst from\nthe woods a doe pursued by hounds and huntsmen. The poor beast was\nexhausted and sank down by the saint as if imploring his protection.\n\nThe tiny saint rose and faced the oncoming pack, which instantly turned\nand dashed back into the forest. Presently the huntsmen approached with\ndrawn bows, prepared to dispatch the frightened quarry. But they too, at\nthe sight of the saint, desisted, and the chief of them, falling upon\nhis knees, cast away his quiver and besought the Holy Neot to receive\nhim into the Church.\n\nThis man, they say, became a monk at the monastery of St. Petroc\nat Bodmin, and the hunting-horn which he carried on the day of his\nconversion was hung for many years in St. Neot's church.\n\nMany of the stories of this saint are depicted in the mediaeval\nstained-glass windows of the parish church of St. Neot, a pretty village\nnestling under the southern slopes of the Bodmin Moor. This church has\none of the finest sets of fifteenth and sixteenth century painted\nwindows in the country, which rival the famous Fairford glass in\nGloucestershire.\n\nSt. Neot is easily reached by road from Bodmin or Liskeard, or from\nDoublebois station, on the main line, from which it is distant about\nthree miles. The village lies in a sheltered valley surrounded by\ncharming wooded country, and from it you may reach, only a short\ndistance away, the edge of wild Bodmin Moor itself.\n\nBodmin, an attractive yet--by the tourist--much neglected town, is some\nseven miles away. Bodmin, the capital of Cornwall, is a quiet, sleepy\nold town ideally situated as a centre from which to reach many parts of\nthe Duchy. Midway between the two coasts, with a good rail service to\neither, and close to the wild moorland that bears its name, this town is\nrich in history.\n\nThe moor with its two Cornish mountains, Brown Willy and Rough Tor\n(which you must pronounce to rhyme with \"plough\"), is easily reached,\nand the rail will take you to Wadebridge or Padstow on the rugged north\ncoast; or south to sheltered Fowey--the Troy Town of \"Q\"--for an\nafternoon's excursion.\n\n[Illustration: _St. Neot, from a window in the Church_]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE OLD MAN OF CURY\n\n\nThey tell a story down in Meneage, as the southernmost corner of\nEngland--the Lizard peninsula--is called, of an old man from the little\nvillage of Cury, near Mullion, who once rescued a mermaid who was\nstranded by the receding tide, and could not get back to her husband and\nfamily, who were awaiting her in a cave by Kynance Cove.\n\nThe old man was walking along the shore one summer evening, thinking of\nnothing in particular, when he saw, in a deep pool left by the falling\ntide, a beautiful lady with long golden hair who appeared to be in the\ngreatest distress.\n\nWhen he drew nearer to her and discovered that she was a mermaid he was\nfilled with alarm, for he had heard many tales of these sea sirens from\nthe fishermen of Gunwalloe. He was for running off home as hard as he\ncould, but the piteous cries of the lovely creature were too much for\nhis kind heart, and he went forward to enquire what her trouble might\nbe.\n\nAt first, she was too terrified to reply, but the old man managed to\npacify her and she sobbed out her story. While her husband and children\nwere asleep in the cave, she said, she had been attracted by the scent\nof the glorious flowers, which grow all about the Lizard, and to get\nas close to them as possible she had drifted in on the waves, and,\nrevelling in the sweet perfume, had not noticed the falling tide until\nshe discovered herself cut off in the rock pool.\n\nNow, she explained, if her husband awoke and found her missing he would\ngrow terribly angry, for she was supposed to be hunting food for his\ndinner, and if none arrived he would as likely as not eat the children.\n\nThe old man, horrified at this terrible possibility, asked what he could\ndo to help. The mermaid replied that if he would only carry her back to\nthe sea, she would give him any three things he cared to ask. He at once\noffered to undertake the task, and asked, not for wealth, but that he\nmight be able to charm away sickness, to break the spells of witchcraft,\nand to discover thieves and restore stolen property. The mermaid readily\nagreed to give him these powers, but she said he must come to a certain\nrock on another day in order to be instructed as to how to obtain them.\nSo the old man bent down and, the mermaid clasping him round the neck\nwith her beautiful arms, he managed to carry her on his back to the\nopen sea.\n\nA few days later he went to the rock agreed upon and was met by the\nmermaid, who thanked him heartily for his aid, and fulfilled her promise\nby telling him how he could secure the powers he desired. Then, taking\nher comb from her golden hair, she gave it to him, saying that so\nlong as he preserved it she would come to him whenever he wanted her;\nand with that, and a languishing smile, she slid off the rock and\ndisappeared.\n\nThey say that the old man and she met several times afterwards, and that\nonce she persuaded him to carry her to a quiet place where she could\nwatch human beings walking about with their \"split tails,\" as she\ndescribed legs. And if you doubt this story, the old people along the\ncoast will still point out to you the \"Mermaid's Rock\" to prove you\nwrong.\n\nAll around the Lizard the wild coast is indented with beautiful\nlittle coves whose pure sandy beaches are washed twice each day by the\nincoming tide. In the deep sheltered valleys of Meneage flowers grow in\nprofusion, while on the bold high moorland of the interior that rare\nBritish plant the Cornish heath flourishes in great bush-like clumps.\n\nYou reach this wonderful country by the Great Western road-coach service\nfrom Helston. Mullion, Kynance, Cadgwith, St. Keverne, all in this\ndistrict, are places of amazing beauty and charm. There are big modern\nhotels to be found at Mullion, and there are golf and sea fishing,\nbathing, and entrancing walks by sea or moor to amuse the visitor in\nthis warm, sea-girt land of heath and flowers.\n\n[Illustration: _The Lizard_]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE HOOTING CARN\n\n\nOne of the grimmest yet most fascinating tracts of moorland in the West\nis that wild, boulder-strewn district behind St. Just in Penwith, near\nthe Land's End. Here, amid a scene of savage beauty, wind-swept by the\ngreat gales from the Atlantic, is a stretch of treeless moor the richest\nin all Cornwall in remains of prehistoric man.\n\nThere is something eerie about this furthest west corner of England and\naround it cluster legends galore. One of the queerest is that of the\nHooting Carn, a bleak hill between St. Just and Morvah.\n\nCam Kenidzhek is its real name, but they are taking now to spelling it\nas it is pronounced--Carn Kenidjack. From it weird moaning sounds arise\nat night, and the strangely named Gump, a level track just below the\nsummit, was, they say, the scene of a grim midnight struggle in the very\nold days.\n\nIt happened that one moonless night two miners, walking back to their\nhomes from Morvah, passed by the base of the Hooting Carn. They knew its\nill repute and hurried along in silence, their fears not allayed by the\nfact that on this night the moaning of the Carn was more persistent than\nusual, and that an unearthly light seemed to illuminate the rocks on\nits summit. Presently, to their great alarm, there sounded behind them\nthe thunder of galloping hoofs. Turning in fear, they saw a dark-robed\nfigure, with a hood covering his face, approaching. As he dashed\npast, he signed to them to follow, and, as they explained later, some\nirresistible force made them obey. Without knowing how they did so, they\nwere able to keep pace with the galloping steed and arrived swiftly near\nthe top of the hill.\n\nThere the dark horseman dismounted, and the miners, terrified, found\nthat they had been brought into the midst of a wild company of men of\nhuge size, with long, unkempt hair and beards, their faces daubed with\nbright colours, and all engaged at the moment in singing a reckless\nchorus which concluded in an uncanny hooting sound. But the arrival\nof the dark rider brought the demoniac singing to an end. A circle\nwas quickly formed, and two men, more huge and more terrible than\nany present, were brought forward to contest in a wrestling match.\nThe horseman, squatting on the ground, gave the signal to begin, but\nafter a few preliminary moves the wrestlers complained that the\nlight was insufficient. Then the squatting demon--for such he proved\nto be--flashed from his eyes two great beams of fire that lit the\nwhole ring.\n\nThe struggle then proceeded, amid the wild yells of the onlookers. At\nlast one of the wrestlers lifted his opponent clear off his feet, and\nhurled him to the ground with stupendous force. There was a sound like\nthunder as he fell, and he lay as one dead. At once the whole ring broke\ninto confusion and crowded round the victor. This seemed to the miners\ngrossly unfair play, and they went over to the fallen man to give him\nwhat aid they could.\n\nThey found him in a terrible state, and, since no aid was available, one\nof them started to offer up a prayer for the dying man's soul.\n\nWith his first words the utmost consternation fell upon the company.\nA great clap of thunder shook the rocks, a pitchy darkness covered the\nscene, and a fierce wind swept the hill. Then, looking upward, the\nminers saw the whole company--the dying man with them--disappearing\nnorthward in a dense black cloud, the two blazing eyes of the demon who\nhad led them to the Carn being clearly distinguishable for some time.\n\nParalysed with fear, the miners remained where they were, until\nreturning daylight broke the evil spell and permitted them to proceed to\ntheir homes and explain to their neighbours the secret of the Hooting\nCarn.\n\nCarn Kenidjack you may reach by a glorious tramp across the moors from\nSt. Just, to which a Great Western motor-coach goes many times daily\nfrom Penzance. From the higher ground you will get magnificent coast\nviews, embracing, on a clear day, the distant land of the Scillies.\n\nAll about the moor you will find the strange relics of a former race:\nstone circles, barrows, cromlechs, and prehistoric dwellings mingling\nwith the fern and heather and stunted grass of the hillside, and you\nbreathe in tonic air that has come to you across two thousand miles of\nocean.\n\n[Illustration: _The Hooting Carn_]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nPADSTOW AND ITS MAY DAY SONGS\n\n\nMay Day in Padstow, on the north Cornish coast, is celebrated by an\nancient custom of peculiar interest. The whole town is _en fete_, the\nships in the harbour decked with flags, the people adorned with flowers.\nThe feature of the day's celebrations is the Hobby Horse Dance, or\nprocession, to two very old tunes. Until comparatively recent times the\nMaypole was still erected each year in the town.\n\nPadstow's two old May songs date from the Middle Ages, but they have\nsuffered much corruption in the course of time. Words and music have\nbeen altered, but the version given here is from an old source, and,\nowing to the irregularity of the metre of the lines, as in all\ntraditional songs, a considerable amount of ingenuity is called for on\nthe part of the singer to fit the words of the second and subsequent\nverses--particularly of the Day Song--to the tune. But it can be done.\n\nThe May Morning Song has eighteen or more verses--each followed by the\nchorus--all of which obviously cannot be printed here. There are a dozen\nthat begin \"Rise up...,\" the name of the person before whose house it\nis being sung being inserted.\n\nThe reference to \"Un Ursula Bird\" in the second verse of the Day Song\nhas a traditional reference to an old dame who, it is said, led a party\nof Cornish women in red cloaks, headed by the Hobby Horse, in procession\nround the cliffs in days gone by and so frightened away a hostile French\nship, whose captain mistook the women for soldiers. A similar story is\ntold of Fishguard in South Wales in Legend Land Leaflet No. 11.\n\n\n[Illustration: THE MAY MORNING SONG (Sheet Music Page 1)]\n\n\nTHE MAY MORNING SONG\n\n\n  Unite! All unite! It's now all unite,\n    For Summer is a-come in today;\n  And whither we are going it's all now unite,\n    In the merry morning of May!\n\n  With the merry singing and the joyful spring,\n    For summer is a-come in to-day,\n  How happy are those little birds that merrily doth sing\n    In the merry morning of May!\n\n  _Chorus: Unite! all unite! &c, after each verse._\n\n  Young men and maidens, I warn you every one,\n    For summer is a-come in to-day,\n  To go unto the green woods and bring the may home\n    In the merry morning of May!\n\n  Rise up, Mr ----, with your sword by your side,\n    For summer is a-come in to-day,\n  Your steed is in the stable and waiting for to ride\n    In the merry morning of May!\n\n  Rise up, Mr ----, and gold be your ring,\n    For summer is a-come in to-day,\n  And send us out a cup of ale, and better we shall sing,\n    In the merry morning of May!\n\n  Rise up, Mrs ----, all in your gown of green,\n    For summer is a-come in to-day;\n  You are so fair a lady as waits upon the queen,\n    In the merry morning of May!\n\n  Rise up, Mr ----, I know you well a fine,\n    For summer is a-come in to-day;\n  You have a shilling in your purse, but I wish it was in mine,\n    In the merry morning of May!\n\n  Rise up, Miss ----, and strew all your flowers,\n    For summer is a-come in to-day;\n  It is but a while ago since we have strewed ours,\n    In the merry morning of May!\n\n  Rise up, Miss ----, and reach to me your hand\n    For summer is a-come in to-day;\n  You are so fair a damsel as any in the land,\n    In the merry morning of May!\n\n  Rise up Master ----, and reach to me your hand,\n    For summer is a-come in to day;\n  And you shall have a lively lass, and a thousand pounds in hand,\n    In the merry morning of May!\n\n  Where are the maidens that here now should sing?\n    For summer is a-come in to day,\n  Oh, they are in the meadows the flowers gathering,\n    In the merry morning of May!\n\n  The young maids of Padstow, they might if they would--\n    For summer is a-come in to day--\n  They might have a garland, and decked it all in gold,\n    In the merry morning of May!\n\n  Where are the young men that here now should dance?\n    For summer is a-come in to day;\n  Oh some they are in England, and some they are in France,\n    In the merry morning of May!\n\n  The young men of Padstow, they might if they would--\n    For summer is a-come in to-day--\n  They might have built a ship, and gilt her all in gold,\n    In the merry morning of May!\n\n  Now fare ye well, we bid you all good cheer,\n    For summer is a-come in to-day,\n  We'll call once more unto your house before another year,\n    In the merry morning of May!\n\n\n[Illustration: THE DAY SONG (Sheet Music Page 1)]\n\n\nTHE DAY SONG\n\n\n  All now for to fetch home,\n    The Summer and the May, O!\n  For Summer is a-come, O!\n    And Winter is a-go, O!\n\n  Up flies the kite,\n    And down falls the lark, O!\n  Un Ursula Bird she had an old ewe, O!\n    And she died in Old Park O!\n\n  Oh, where is St. George?\n    Oh where is he, O?\n  He's down in his long boat,\n    All on the salt sea, O!\n\n  Oh, where are those French dogs?\n    Oh, where are they, O?\n  They're down in their long boats,\n    All on the salt sea, O!\n\n  Oh, where are those French dogs?\n    Oh where are they, O!\n  They shall eat the grey goose feathers,\n    And we will eat the roast, O!\n\n\nThe last verse of the Morning Song is sung to its own tune to conclude\nthe Day Song.\n\nPadstow itself is a queer old fishing town, fifteen miles from Bodmin,\nfrom which place it is easily reached by train. It is situated at the\nmouth of the Camel, the finest salmon river in Cornwall, and has at St.\nEnodoc, on the other side of the estuary, one of the best golf courses\nin England.\n\n[Illustration: _The Old Hobby Horse_]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n[Illustration:\n\nG.W.R: The Line to Legend Land.\n\nST. NEOT                 Page 40\nTHE HOOTING CARN         Page 44\nLELANT CHURCH            Page 32\nTHE SEVEN STONES         Page 28\nCURY                     Page 48\nTALLAND                  Page 36\nPADSTOW                  Page 52\n\nVol. Two Back End]","title":"Legend Land, Vol. 2: Being a Collection of Some of the Old Tales Told in Those Western Parts of Britain Served by the Great Western Railway","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":9824}