One maid is wringing of her hands, and one is weeping sore--
Down to the dust men bow their heads, and ashes black they strew
Upon their broidered garments of crimson, green, and blue--
Before each gate the bier stands still, then bursts the loud bewailing,
From door and lattice, high and low--"Alas! alas for Celin!"
An old, old woman cometh forth, when she hears the people cry;
Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazèd eye.
Twas she that nursed him at her breast, that nursed him long ago;
She knows not whom they all lament, but soon she well shall know.
With one deep shriek she thro' doth break, when her ears receive their wailing--