The Mad Mother

141

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.

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“ 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 wight to see !

For he was here, and only he.

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Suck, little babe, oh suck again !

It cools my blooks ; 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 baby 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.

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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 makes the softest best :

And if from me thou wilt not go,

But still be true 'till I am dead,

My pretty thing ! then though 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.

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Dread not their taunts, my little life!

I am thy father's wedded wife;

And underneath the spreading tree

We two will live in honest.

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 though 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.

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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.