His land lay scattered from east to west,
From the sandy hills to the bog,
And his house was wide with a hearth inside
Where his wife had lit the log.
And nights were many, when days grew short,
That the men would gather there,
And joke and spit, or slyly sit
And gaze at her midnight hair.
And nights were few, in the winter cold,
When the crackling blaze burned dim,
That every man made not a plan
To lead her home with him.
But no man dared, for striding Gripp
Was such a one, in brief,
That if there were a wife to steal
Josiah was the thief.