From church that noon the people walked
In twos and threes, alas for me,
Showed their new raiment—smiled and talked,
Though sackcloth-clad I longed to be.
Came to my door her lover’s friends,
And cheerly cried, alas for me,
“Right glad are we he makes amends,
For never a sweeter bride can be.”
My mouth dried, as ’twere scorched within,
Dried at their words, alas for me:
More and more neighbours crowded in,
(O why should mothers ever be!)
“Ha-ha! Such well-kept news!” laughed they,
Yes—so they laughed, alas for me.
“Whose banns were called in church to-day?”—
Christ, how I wished my soul could flee!
“Where is she? O the stealthy miss,”
Still bantered they, alas for me,
“To keep a wedding close as this . . .”
Ay, Fortune worked thus wantonly!
“But you are pale—you did not know?”
They archly asked, alas for me,
I stammered, “Yes—some days-ago,”
While coffined clay I wished to be.
“’Twas done to please her, we surmise?”
(They spoke quite lightly in their glee)
“Done by him as a fond surprise?”
I thought their words would madden me.
Her lover entered. “Where’s my bird?—
My bird—my flower—my picotee?
First time of asking, soon the third!”
Ah, in my grave I well may be.
To me he whispered: “Since your call—”
So spoke he then, alas for me—
“I’ve felt for her, and righted all.”
—I think of it to agony.
“She’s faint to-day—tired—nothing more—”
Thus did I lie, alas for me . . .
I called her at her chamber door
As one who scarce had strength to be.