  I married him on Christmas morn,— Ah woe betide, ah woe betide, Folk said I was a comely bride,— Ah me forlorn. All braided was my golden hair, And heavy then, and shining then, My limbs were sweet to madden men,— O cunning snare. My beauty was a thing they say Of large renown,—O dread renown,— Its rumour travelled through the town, Alas the day. His kisses burn my mouth and brows,— O burning kiss, O barren kiss,— My body for his worship is, And so he vows. But daily many men draw near With courtly speech and subtle speech; I gather from the lips of each A deadly fear. As he grows sullen I grow cold, And whose the blame? Not mine the blame; All fiercely fold. And oh, to think that he might be So proudly set, above them set, If he might but awaken yet The soul of me. Will no man seek and seeking find The soul of me, the soul of me? Nay, even as they are, so is he, And all are blind. On Christmas morning we were wed, Ah me the morn, the luckless morn; Now poppies burn along the corn, Would I were dead. |
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