Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. The Musician's Tale; The Mother's Ghost
Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade;
I myself was young!
There he hath wooed him so winsome a maid;
Fair words gladden so many a heart.
Together were they for seven years,
And together children six were theirs.
Then came Death abroad through the land,
And blighted the beautiful lily-wand.
Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade,
And again hath he wooed him another maid,
He hath wooed him a maid and brought home a bride,
But she was bitter and full of pride.
When she came driving into the yard,
There stood the six children weeping so hard.
There stood the small children with sorrowful heart;
From before her feet she thrust them apart.
She gave to them neither ale nor bread;
'Ye shall suffer hunger and hate,' she said.
She took from them their quilts of blue,
And said: 'Ye shall lie on the straw we strew.'
She took from them the great waxlight;
'Now ye shall lie in the dark at night.'
In the evening late they cried with cold;
The mother heard it under the mould.
The woman heard it the earth below:
'To my little children I must go.'
She standeth before the Lord of all:
'And may I go to my children small?'
She prayed him so long, and would not cease,
Until he bade her depart in peace.
'At cock-crow thou shalt return again;
Longer thou shalt not there remain!'
She girded up her sorrowful bones,
And rifted the walls and the marble stones.
As through the village she flitted by,
The watch-dogs howled aloud to the sky.
When she came to the castle gate,
There stood her eldest daughter in wait.
'Why standest thou here, dear daughter mine?
How fares it with brothers and sisters thine?'
'Never art thou mother of mine,
For my mother was both fair and fine.
'My mother was white, with cheeks of red,
But thou art pale, and like to the dead.'
'How should I be fair and fine?
I have been dead; pale cheeks are mine.
'How should I be white and red,
So long, so long have I been dead?'
When she came in at the chamber door,
There stood the small children weeping sore.
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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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