Blue eyes, and ringlets of gold;
But this is ugly and wrinkled,
Cross, and cunning, and old.
“I hate the touch of her fingers,
I hate the feel of her skin;
It’s not the milk from my bosom,
But my blood, that she sucks in.
“My face grows sharp with the torment;
Look! my arms are skin and bone!—
Rake open the red coals, goodman,