The Bride

Farewell to himself
That I left in his sleep,
And God save him kindly
And let him sleep deep.

And more shame to me,
Creeping out like a mouse —
A seven weeks’ bride —
From my husband’s house.

But I was born of the eastern world
And I’ll never be knit to the western places,
And the hunger ’s on me, fierce and keen,
For the morning look of the eastern faces;
And oh, my grief, but himself is queer,
With his cold, soft words and his cold, hard caring!
(It must have been I was daft myself
With the thought of the silks I would be wearing.) Well, there’ll be staring to see me home,
And there’ll be clack and a nine days’ talking;
But for all the binding book and bell,
This is the road that I must be walking.

And when they will ask him, —
‘ But where is your bride ? ’
Then he will be weeping
The slow tears of pride.

And when they are prying, —
‘ But where was the blame ?’
It ’s he will be blushing
The thin blush of shame.

But I’m destroyed with a homesick heart,
And the likes of me would best bide single!
I’ll step it brisk till the evening damp,
And I’ll sleep snug in a deep, soft dingle.
And I ’ll win back to the eastern world
By a way himself could never follow;
And I’ll be lepping the streams for joy
And lifting a tune by hedge and hollow.
And if they’ll look on the morning’s morn,
Rising up in the sweet young weather,
Then they’ll see me and the darling day
Footing it over the Hill together!