Poem by Thomas Hardy

The Bride-Night Fire

(A Wessex Tradition)

They had long met o’ Zundays – her true love and she –
And at junketings, maypoles, and flings; 
But she bode wi’ a thirtover uncle, and he 
Swore by noon and by night that her goodman should be 
Naibour Sweatley – a wight often weak at the knee 
From taking o’ sommat more cheerful than tea – 
Who tranted, and moved people’s things. 

She cried, ‘O pray pity me!’ Nought would he hear; 
Then with wild rainy eyes she obeyed.
She chid when her Love was for clinking off wi’ her:
The pa’son was told, as the season drew near, 
To throw over pu’pit the names of the pair 
As fitting one flesh to be made. 

The wedding-day dawned and the morning drew on; 
The couple stood bridegroom and bride; 
The evening was passed, and when midnight had gone 
The feasters horned, ‘God save the King,’ and anon 
The pair took their home-along ride.

The lover Tim Tankens mourned heart-sick and leer 
To be thus of his darling deprived: 
He roamed in the dark ath’art field, mound, and mere, 
And, a’most without knowing it, found himself near 
The house of the tranter, and now of his Dear, 
Where the lantern-light showed ’em arrived. 

The bride sought her chamber so calm and so pale 
That a Northern had thought her resigned; 
But to eyes that had seen her in tidetimes of weal, 
Like the white cloud o’ smoke, the red battlefield’s vail, 
That look spak’ of havoc behind. 

The bridegroom yet laitered a beaker to drain, 
Then reeled to the linhay for more, 
When the candle-snoff kindled some chaff from his grain –
Flames spread, and red vlankers, wi’ might and wi’ main
Around beams, thatch, and chimley-tun roar. 

Young Tim away yond, rafted up by the light, 
Through brimbles and underwood tears, 
Till he comes to the orchet, when crooping from sight 
In the lewth of a codlin-tree, bivering wi’ fright, 
Wi’ on’y her night-rail to cover her plight, 
His lonesome young Barbree appears. 

Her cwold little figure half-naked he views 
Played about by the frolicsome breeze, 
Her light-tripping totties, her ten little tooes, 
All bare and besprinkled wi’ Fall’s chilly dews, 
While her great gallied eyes through her hair hanging loose
Shone as stars through a tardle o’ trees. 

She eyed him; and, as when a weir-hatch is drawn, 
Her tears, penned by terror afore, 
With a rushing of sobs in a shower were strawn, 
Till her power to pour ’em seemed wasted and gone 
From the heft o’ misfortune she bore. 

‘O Tim, my own Tim I must call ’ee – I will! 
All the world has turned round on me so! 
Can you help her who loved ’ee, though acting so ill? 
Can you pity her misery – feel for her still? 
When worse than her body so quivering and chill 
Is her heart in its winter o’ woe! 

‘I think I mid almost ha’ borne it,’ she said, 
‘Had my griefs one by one come to hand; 
But O, to be slave to thik husbird, for bread, 
And then, upon top o’ that, driven to wed, 
And then, upon top o’ that, burnt out o’ bed, 
Is more than my nater can stand!’ 

Like a lion ’ithin en Tim’s spirit outsprung – 
(Tim had a great soul when his feelings were wrung) – 
‘Feel for ’ee, dear Barbree?’ he cried; 
And his warm working-jacket then straightway he flung 
Round about her, and horsed her by jerks, till she clung 
Like a chiel on a gipsy, her figure uphung 
By the sleeves that he tightly had tied. 

Over piggeries, and mixens, and apples, and hay, 
They lumpered straight into the night; 
And finding ere long where a halter-path lay, 
Sighted Tim’s house by dawn, on’y seen on their way 
By a naibour or two who were up wi’ the day, 
But who gathered no clue to the sight. 

Then tender Tim Tankens he searched here and there 
For some garment to clothe her fair skin; 
But though he had breeches and waistcoats to spare, 
He had nothing quite seemly for Barbree to wear, 
Who, half shrammed to death, stood and cried on a chair 
At the caddle she found herself in. 

There was one thing to do, and that one thing he did, 
He lent her some clothes of his own, 
And she took ’em perforce; and while swiftly she slid 
Them upon her Tim turned to the winder, as bid, 
Thinking, ‘O that the picter my duty keeps hid 
To the sight o’ my eyes mid be shown!’ 

In the tallet he stowed her; there huddied she lay, 
Shortening sleeves, legs, and tails to her limbs; 
But most o’ the time in a mortal bad way, 
Well knowing that there’d be the divel to pay 
If ’twere found that, instead o’ the elements’ prey, 
She was living in lodgings at Tim’s. 

‘Where’s the tranter?’ said men and boys; ‘where can he be?’ 
‘Where’s the tranter?’ said Barbree alone. 
‘Where on e’th is the tranter?’ said everybod-y: 
They sifted the dust of his perished roof-tree, 
And all they could find was a bone. 

Then the uncle cried, ‘Lord, pray have mercy on me!’ 
And in terror began to repent. 
But before ’twas complete, and till sure she was free, 
Barbree drew up her loft-ladder, tight turned her key –
Tim bringing up breakfast and dinner and tea – 
Till the news of her hiding got vent. 

Then followed the custom-kept rout, shout, and flare 
Of a skimmity-ride through the naibourhood, ere 
Folk had proof o’ wold Sweatley’s decay. 
Whereupon decent people all stood in a stare, 
Saying Tim and his lodger should risk it, and pair: 
So he took her to church. An’ some laughing lads there 
Cried to Tim, ‘After Sweatley!’ She said, ‘I declare 
I stand as a maiden to-day!’ 

1. At the Word ‘Farewell’
2. The Supplanter
3. Afternoon Service at Mellstock
4. The Children and Sir Nameless
5. Tragedian to Tragedienne

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