 | Poems |  |
A LAMENT.
O who will be a husband to me!
And who will my baby's father be?
Soon my babe will be born and I'm all forlorn,
And who will comfort me!
And who will my baby's father be?
Soon my babe will be born and I'm all forlorn,
And who will comfort me!
Ah, war is a trade by which widows are made,
And sore, O full sore is my heart afraid
That, among the red slain, on some battle plain
My soldier will be laid.
And sore, O full sore is my heart afraid
That, among the red slain, on some battle plain
My soldier will be laid.
Alone—alone, I must make my moan;
No pity my father's heart has shown;
My mother will scorn my babe when it's born,
And show it a face of stone.
No pity my father's heart has shown;
My mother will scorn my babe when it's born,
And show it a face of stone.
O born to shame—to no father's name,
My baby will bear its mother's blame;
Only my love and its God's above
Will smile on my child of shame.
My baby will bear its mother's blame;
Only my love and its God's above
Will smile on my child of shame.
God send the day for which I so pray
When my child in his father's arms I shall lay!
O were he but here, my soldier dear!
O God! to see that day!
When my child in his father's arms I shall lay!
O were he but here, my soldier dear!
O God! to see that day!
| Poems | |