THE WOMAN WHO WENT TO HELL
AN IRISH LEGEND
Young Dermod stood by his mother's side,
And he spake right stern and cold;
“Now, why do you weep and wail,” he said,
“And joy from my bride withhold?
“And why do you keen and cry,” said he,
“So loud on my marriage day?
The wedding guests they now eager wait,
All clad in their rich array.
“The priest is ready with book and stole,
And you do this grievous thing:
You keep me back from the altar rail—
My bride from her wedding ring.”
His mother she rose, and she dried her tears,
She took him by his right hand—
“The cause,” she said, "of my grief and pain
Too soon must you understand.
“Oh, one-and-twenty long years ago
I walked in your father's farm,
I broke a bough from a ripe peach-tree,
And carried it on my arm.
“My heart was light as a thistle-seed—
I had but been wed a year—
I dreamt of joy that would soon be mine—
A babe in my arms so dear.
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