“A strange poor man, who harbour’d here,
He died last night, my daughter dear.”
“But tell me, madam, my lord, your son—
My husband—whither is he gone?”
“But to the town, my child, he’s gone;
And at your side he’ll be back anon.”
“What gown for my churching were’t best to wear,—
My gown of grain, or of watchet fair?”
“The fashion of late, my child, hath grown,
That women for churching black should don.”
As through the churchyard porch she stept,
She saw the grave where her husband slept.
“Who of our blood is lately dead,
That our ground is new raked and spread?”
“The truth I may no more forbear,
My son—your own poor lord—lies there!”
She threw herself on her knees amain,
And from her knees ne’er rose again.
That night they laid her, dead and cold,
Beside her lord, beneath the mould;
When, lo!—a marvel to behold!—