Black Annis by John Heyrick, and Her Reply by Simon Bucher-Jones

Being an answer to a very young lady’s enquiries about the story of Black Annis

By John Heyrick

Where down the plain the winding pathway falls
From Glenfield Vill to Lester’s ancient walls,
Nature or Art with imitative power,
Far in the glenn has placed Black Annis’ Bower.

An oak, the pride of all the mossy dell,

Spread its broad arms above the stony cell;
And many a bush, with hostile thorns arrayed,
Forbids the secret cavern to invade;
Whilst delving vales each way meander round,
And violet banks with redolence abound.

Here, if the uncouth song of former days

Soil not the page with Falsehood’s artful lays,
Black Annis held her solitary reign,
The dread and wonder of the neighbouring plain.
The shepherd grieved to view his waning flock,
And traced his firstlings to the gloomy rock.
No vagrant children culled (the) flow’rets then,
For infant blood oft stained the gory den.

Not Sparta’s mount, for infant tears renown’d,

Echo’d more frequently the piteous sound.
Oft the gaunt Maid the frantic Mother curs’d,
Whom Britain’s wolf with savage nipple nurs’d;
Whom Lester’s sons beheld, aghast the scene,
Nor dared to meet the Monster of the Green.

Tis said the soul of mortal man recoil’d,

To view Black Annis’ eye, so fierce and wild;
Vast talons, foul with human flesh, there grew
In place of hands, and features livid blue
Glar’d in her visage; while the obscene waist
Warm skins of human victims close embraced.

But Time, than Man more certain, tho’ more slow,

At length ‘gainst Annis drew his sable bow;
The great decree the pious shepherds bless’d,
And general joy the general fear confess’d.
Not without terror they the cave survey,
Where hung the monstrous trophies of her sway:
‘Tis said, that in the rock large rooms were found,
Scoop’d with her claws beneath the flinty ground;
In these the swains her hated body threw,
But left the entrance still to future view,
That children’s children might the tale rehearse,
And bards record it in their tuneful verse.

But in these listless days, the idle bard

Gives to the wind all themes of cold regard;
Forgive, then, if in rough, unpolished song,
An unskilled swain the dying tale prolong.

And you, ye Fair, whom Nature’s scenes delight,

If Annis’ Bower your vagrant steps invite,
Ere the bright sun Aurora’s car succeed,
Or dewy evening quench the thirsty mead,
Forbear with chilling censures to refuse
Some gen’rous tribute to the rustic muse.
A violet or common daisy throw,
Such gifts as Maro’s lovely nymphs bestow;
Then shall your Bard survive the critic’s frown,
And in your smiles enjoy his best renown.

Being Black Annis’s reply to John Heyrick, as he dreamed one night.

From in the Glen where neither of the twain,
Cold art, or fervid nature, single reign,
But both are melded into my domaine,
I see the patterns, stretched out skein, by skein.

As skins of men are stretched to dry on wood,
(Parchment so made is what stores charms so good),
When memories, the thorns upon the briar,
Begin to brittle, grey, and so expire,
My skin made books will keep the thoughts well sharp,
Each word a note, each page a stinging harp.

Call not the past uncouth, your days are vain,
Who have learned nothing from the aeon’s pain,
Nor, cant as solitary, single ways,
‘Til you have walked in silence, endless days.
And seen the visions of the mind that come,
To those who know the speaking world is dumb.
For in the vault of thought is born the world,
Nor are we other than those thoughts unfurled.

Imagined cries, of all my slaughtered thoughts,
Upset the hind-bound and the mindless sorts,
They could not put a theorem to the sword,
Nor find in long-sought truth, God’s one reward.
None dared come nigh, ‘tis true, in fear they quake
That I might slay their favourite mistake.

‘Tis true the tongue of mortal man recoil’d
In fear mansplaining would be somehow spoil’d
To see the long, curved, whiteness of my chalk,
Scratch through another line of mortal talk.
Rooks were my pupils, Crows and Owls my brood,
In learned Parliament, I oft times stood.

Had I writ long (if man-skin held the place),
I should have joined as one both – time and space,
Bid time his stable bow, lay 'neath my tread,
His silver arrows, notches on my bed.
Made Space my steed, and bid all broomsticks by,
No one would see me, save they saw the sky.
And yet perhaps I did, for where am I?
Not in supposed bower, despite your ken,
Not in the flinty earth, as fox in den,
Was ever Annis found by scowling men,
The entrance that you seek is at your door,
And children they may find it, evermore.

Such words you may have dreamed last night asleep,
For in the softest dream some truth may creep,
As iron talons skilful made to hold
A chalk stick, may the cheek of child cold.

If starting from your sleep with horrid twitch,
You find your childhood eaten by the witch. 
Be still old man, be still old woman too,
Careful in speech, and cautious to construe
Tales of ill-omen, do no hermit curse
For fear they are not dead, and take it worse.
Forbear to speak ill of the blue-hued crone,
Of whose supposed corpse, no hank or bone,
Was ever found beneath the watching sky,
Which all can see, is blue as Witch’s eye.