And seldom scents a thing in vain,
If it be holy or profane.
Your jewels, she was not long in guessing,
Were not like to bring a blessing.
“My child,” quoth she, “ill-gotten gear
Ensnares the soul, consumes the blood;
We’ll give it to Mary-mother dear,
And she will feed us with heavenly food!”
Margaret looked blank—“’tis hard,” thought she,
“To put a gift-horse away from me;