“Here is your child; her weak and weary feet
Led her home to her own mother's door.”
“My child stole from my side all gladly fleet;
I tell you to trouble me no more.”
“O mother, mother I a little babe I bring;
I pray you rise and let us through.”
“On my child's hand was set no wedding-ring;
I shall not open unto you.”
“Oh, cruel you are I Unforgiving to your child:
Sorrow and shame make her appeal.”
“Did she think of me when a stranger came and smiled!
She went like a dog to his heel!”
“A priest I a priest, I pray you bring to me;
Unchurched and unshriven am I.”
“As you went, you shall go, unblessed to be.
Why do you linger here to cry!”
“A priest! A priest! My little dying boy!
Unchristened and unholy he lies.”
“Accurst be your sorrow, accurst was your joy—
Begone! I will answer not your cries.”
••••••
Jeanne Bras, Jeanne Bras, she rose up with the dawn,
And flung off the bolt and the chain:
The first thing she rested her hot eyes upon
Was the child who had called her in vain.
The next thing she saw was the babe, all so white,
Lying cold on its cold mother's breast.
Each face bore the tears of its pitiful plight—
They lay in their sleeping unblest.
Jeanne Bras, Jeanne Bras, she laid them side by side,
All in their cold and silent bed;
Then she knelt by their grave, and bitterly she cried
Till the stars trembled forth overhead.
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