The proud years have passed it and left it alone;
No more with red blossoms its gables are gay;
From moss-covered thatch and from mouldering stone
The rose that once wrapped it has withered away.
No longer the gate to a challenge is swung,
Nor through it the old-fashioned chariots roll,
But I can remember the sixpennies flung,
As we came at a canter through Crooked House Toll.
A little old woman all wrinkled and brown.
Like a russet-red pippin left long on the tree,
Would stand by the gate in her clean cotton gown
And bob to our elders and smile upon me.
'Tis long since the lady' relinquished her trust.
But still I can picture on memory's scroll
The quaint little figure that stooped in the dust
To pick up our silver at Crooked House Toll.
When the moon's very round and the night 's very still
And the cottage is guest-room to goblin and gnome,
If you stand in the highway and look to the hill,
You will see the brown horses come covered with foam,
You will hear the light tap of each hoof as it falls
And the chink of the chains to the swing of the pole,
And see a white figure glide out from the walls
To open the gate at the Crooked House Toll.
