A little poem by Robert Bloomfield, read for Librivox by Colleen McMahon. Thanks to the Librivoxians. I was going to save it until Halloween, but I’m sure I can find other ghosts before then.
The Fakenham Ghost
A Ballad.
The Lawns were dry in Euston Park;
(Here Truth [1] inspires my Tale)
The lonely footpath, still and dark,
Led over Hill and Dale.
Benighted was an ancient Dame,
And fearful haste she made
To gain the vale of Fakenham,
And hail its Willow shade.
Her footsteps knew no idle stops,
But follow’d faster still;
And echo’d to the darksome Copse
That whisper’d on the Hill;
Where clam’rous Rooks, yet scarcely hush’d,
Bespoke a peopled shade;
And many a wing the foliage brush’d,
And hov’ring circuits made.
The dappled herd of grazing Deer
That sought the Shades by day,
Now started from her path with fear,
And gave the Stranger way.
Darker it grew; and darker fears
Came o’er her troubled mind;
When now, a short quick step she hears
Come patting close behind.
She turn’d; it stopt;—nought could she see
Upon the gloomy plain!
But, as she strove the Sprite to flee,
She heard the same again.
Now terror seiz’d her quaking frame;
For, where the path was bare,
The trotting Ghost kept on the same!
She mutter’d many a pray’r.
Yet once again, amidst her fright
She tried what sight could do;
When through the cheating glooms of night,
A MONSTER stood in view.
Regardless of whate’er she felt,
It follow’d down the plain!
She own’d her sins, and down she knelt,
And said her pray’rs again.
Then on she sped: and Hope grew strong,
The white park gate in view;
Which pushing hard, so long it swung
That Ghost and all pass’d through.
Loud fell the gate against the post!
Her heart-strings like to crack:
For, much she fear’d the grisly Ghost
Would leap upon her back.
Still on, pat, pat, the Goblin went,
As it had done before:—
Her strength and resolution spent,
She fainted at the door.
Out came her Husband much surpris’d:
Out came her Daughter dear:
Good-natur’d Souls! all unadvis’d
Of what they had to fear.
The Candle’s gleam pierc’d through the night,
Some short space o’er the green;
And there the little trotting Sprite
Distinctly might be seen.
An Ass’s Foal had lost its Dam
Within the spacious Park;
And simple as the playful Lamb
Had follow’d in the dark.
No Goblin he; no imp of sin:
No crimes had ever known.
They took the shaggy stranger in,
And rear’d him as their own.
His little hoofs would rattle round
Upon the Cottage floor:
The Matron learn’d to love the sound
That frighten’d her before.
A favorite the Ghost became;
And, ’twas his fate to thrive:
And long he liv’d and spread his fame,
And kept the joke alive.
For many a laugh went through the Vale;
And some conviction tod:—
Each thought some other Goblin
Perhaps, was just as true.
[Footnote 1: This Ballad is founded on a fact. The circumstance occurred perhaps long before I was born: but is still related by my Mother, and some of the oldest inhabitants in that part of the country. R.B.]
Games From Folktales 
Reblogged this on "And sometimes he's so nameless" and commented:
A poem of Fakenham Magna, a mile or so from home in my Lodge Farm days…
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This poem is about the fields across the road from my childhood home: the tiny hamlet of Fakenham Magna on the Euston estate, not the much bigger Fakenham up Norwich way. Some of my relatives sleep in the graveyard at Barnham probably with those who knew the foal, the lady and Bromefield in life.
It reminded me of the occasion at Euston my father was teaching me to drive in his little white lorry, when I suddenly saw a strange misshapen beastie among the deer, and contrary to all possibility thought it a wild boar.
So I went off road and after it across a field and in to an ash wood, only to find dad had jumped out of the moving lorry! I never caught it and he said it was a probably Muntjac, but I have seen Muntjac. Maybe the ghost of the tame goblin still haunts the herds 😉
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