I
Hark ye! Hush ye! Margot’s dead!
Hush! Have done wi’ your brawling tune!
Danced, she did, till the stars grew pale;
Mother o’ God, an’ she’s gone at noon!
Sh-h ... d’ye hear me?—Margot’s dead!
Sickened an’ drooped an’ died in an hour!
(Bring me th’ milk an’ th’ meat an’ bread.)
Drooped, she did, like a wilted flower.
Come an’ look at her, how she lies,
Little an’ lone, and like she’s scared....
(She lost her beads last Friday week,
Tore her Book, an’ she never cared.)...
Eh, my lass, but it’s winter, now—
You that ever was meant for June,
Your laughing mouth an’ your dancing feet—
An’ now you’re done, like an ended tune.
Where’s that woman? Ah, give it me quick,
Food at her head an’ her poor, still feet....
There’s plenty, fool! D’ye think the wench
Had so many sins for himself to eat?
Take up your cloak an’ hand me mine....
Are we fetchin’ him? Eh, for sure!
An’ you’ll come with me for all your quakes,
Clear to his cave across the moor!
—Margot, dearie, don’t look so scared,
It’s no long while till your peace begins!
What if you tore your Book, poor lamb?
I’m bringin’ you one will eat your sins!