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The Mad Mother
Her eyes are wild, her head is bare,
The sun has burnt her coal-black hair,
Her eye-brows have a rusty stain,
And she came far from over the main.
She has a baby on her arm,
Or else she were alone;
And underneath the hay-stack warm,
And on the green-wood stone,
She talked and sung the woods among;
And it was in the English tongue.
"Sweet babe! They say that I am mad,
But nay, my heart is far too glad;
And I am happy when I sing
Full many a sad and doleful thing:
Then, lovely baby, do not fear!
I pray thee have no fear of me,
But, safe as in a cradle, here
My lovely baby! thou shalt be,
To thee I know too much I owe;
I cannot work thee any woe.
A fire was once within my brain;
And in my head a dull, dull pain;
And fiendish faces one, two, three,
Hung at my breasts, and pulled at me.
But then there came a sight of joy;
It came at once to do me good;
I waked, and saw my little boy,
My little boy of flesh and blood;
Oh joy for me that sight to see!
For he was here, and only he.
Suck, little babe, oh suck again!
It cools my blood; it cools my brain;
Thy lips I feel them, baby! they
Draw from my heart the pain away.
Oh! press me with thy little hand;
It loosens something at my chest;
About that tight and deadly band
I feel thy little fingers press`d.
The breeze I see is in the tree;
It comes to cool my babe and me.
Oh! love me, love me, little boy!
Thou art thy mother`s only joy;
And do not dread the waves below,
When o`er the sea-rock`s edge we go;
The high crag cannot work me harm,
Nor leaping torrents when they howl;
The babe I carry on my arm,
He saves for me my precious soul;
Then happy lie, for blest am I;
Without me my sweet babe would die.
Then do not fear, my boy! for thee
Bold as a lion I will be;
And I will always be thy guide,
Through hollow snows and rivers wide.
I`ll build an Indian bower; I know
The leaves that make the softest bed:
And if from me thou wilt not go,
But still be true `till I am dead,
My pretty thing! then thou shalt sing,
As merry as the birds in spring.
Thy father cares not for my breast,
`Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest:
`Tis all thine own! and if its hue
Be changed, that was so fair to view,
`Tis fair enough for thee, my dove!
My beauty, little child, is flown;
But thou wilt live with me in love,
And what if my poor cheek be brown?
`Tis well for me; thou canst not see
How pale and wan it else would be.
Dread not their taunts, my little life!
I am thy father`s wedded wife;
And underneath the spreading tree
We two will live in honesty.
If his sweet boy he could forsake,
With me he never would have stay`d:
From him no harm my babe can take,
But he, poor man! is wretched made,
And every day we two will pray
For him that`s gone and far away.
I`ll teach my boy the sweetest things;
I`ll teach him how the owlet sings.
My little babe! thy lips are still,
And thou hast almost suck`d thy fill.
--Where art thou gone my own dear child?
What wicked looks are those I see?
Alas! alas! that look so wild,
It never, never came from me:
If thou art mad, my pretty lad,
Then I must be for ever sad.
Oh! smile on me, my little lamb!
For I thy own dear mother am.
My love for thee has well been tried:
I`ve sought thy father far and wide.
I know the poisons of the shade,
I know the earth-nuts fit for food;
Then, pretty dear, be not afraid;
We`ll find thy father in the wood.
Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away!
And there, my babe, we`ll live for aye.
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