THE IMAGE

‘Why do you look so pale, my son William? Where have you been so long?’ ‘I’ve been to my sweetheart, Mother, As it says in the song.’ ‘Though you be pledged and cried to the parish ’Tis not fitting or right To visit a young maiden At this hour of night.’ ‘I went not for her sweet company, I meant not any sin, But only to walk round her house And think she was within. ‘Unbeknown I looked in at the window; And there I saw my bride Sitting lonesome in the chimney-nook, With the cat alongside. ‘Slowly she drew out from under her apron An image made of wax, Shaped like a man, and all stuck over With pins and with tacks. ‘Hair it had, hanging down to its shoulders, Straight as any tow— Just such a lock she begged of me But three days ago. ‘She set it down to stand in the embers— The wax began to run. Mother! Mother! That waxen image, I think it was your son!’ ‘’Twas but a piece of maiden’s foolishness, Never think more of it. I warrant that when she’s a wife She’ll have a better wit.’ ‘Maybe, maybe, Mother. I pray you, mend the fire. For I am cold to the knees With walking through the mire. ‘The snow is melting under the rain, The ways are full of mud; The cold has crept into my bones, And glides along my blood. ‘Take out, take out my winding-sheet From the press where it lies, And borrow two pennies from my money-box To put upon my eyes; ‘For now the cold creeps up to my heart, My ears go Ding, go Dong: I shall be dead long before day, For winter nights are long.’ ‘Cursèd, cursèd be that Devil’s vixen To rob you of your life! And cursèd be the day you left me To go after a wife!’ ‘Why do you speak so loud, Mother? I was almost asleep. I thought the churchbells were ringing And the snow lay deep. ‘Over the white fields we trod to our wedding, She leant upon my arm— What have I done to her that she Should do me this harm?’