Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE WASHER OF THE FORD, by SAMUEL FERGUSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE WASHER OF THE FORD, by             Poem Explanation         Poet's Biography
First Line: And now, at dawn, to cross the fords, hard by the royal
Last Line: Of all but running water.
Subject(s): War


And now, at dawn, to cross the fords, hard by the royal town,
The fresh, well-ordered, vigorous bands in gallant ranks drew down;
When lo! a spectre horrible, of more than human size,
Full in the middle of the ford took all their wondering eyes.
A ghastly woman it appeared, with gray dishevelled hair
Blood-draggled, and with sharp-boned arms, and fingers
crooked and spare,
Dabbing and washing in the ford, where mid-leg deep she stood
Beside a heap of heads and limbs that swam in oozing blood,
Where on and on a glittering heap of raiment rich and brave
With swift, pernicious hands she scooped and poured the crimson wave.
And though the stream approaching her ran tranquil, clear, and bright,
Sand-gleaming between verdant banks, a fair and peaceful sight,
Downward the blood-polluted flood rode turbid, strong and proud,
With heady-eddying dangerous whirls and surges dashing loud.
All stood aghast. But Kelloch cried, " Advance me to the bank!
I'll speak the hag."
But back, instead, his trembling bearers shrank.
Then Congal from the foremost rank a spear-cast for-ward strode,
And said, "Who art thou, hideous one? and from what curst abode
Comest thou thus in open day the hearts of men to freeze?
And whose lopped heads and severed limbs and bloody vests are these?"
"I am the Washer of the Ford," she answered, "and my race
Is of the Tuath de Danaan line of Magi; and my place
For toil is in the running streams of Erin; and my cave
For sleep is in the middle of the shell-heaped Cairn of Maev,
High up on haunted Knocknarea; and this fine carnage-heap
Before me, and these silken vests and mantles which I steep
Thus in the running water, are the severed heads and hands
And spear-torn scarfs and tunics of these gay-dressed, gallant bands,
Whom thou, O Congal, leadest to death. And this," the Fury said,
Uplifting by the clotted locks what seemed a dead man's head,
"Is thine own head, O Congal!"
Therewith she rose in air,
And vanished from the warriors, leaving the river bare
Of all but running water.





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