Classic Poem

The sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair,
And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air;
The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea,
And happiness is everywhere, O mother, but with me!

They are going to the church, mother,—I hear the marriage bell;
It booms along the upland,—oh, it haunts me like a knell;
He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step,
And closely to his side she clings,—she does, the demirep!

They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood,
The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood;
And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear,
Wave their silver branches o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere.

He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he press'd,
By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confess'd;
And down the hedgerows where we've stray'd again and yet again;
And he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane!

He said that I was proud, mother, that I look'd for rank and gold,
He said I did not love him,—he said my words were cold;
He said I'd kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game,—
And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn't done the same?

I did not know my heart, mother,—I know it now too late;
I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler mate;
But no nobler suitor sought me,—and he has taken wing,
And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing.

You may lay me in my bed, mother,—my head is throbbing sore;
And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before;
And, if you'd please, my mother dear, your poor desponding child,
Draw me a pot of beer, mother, and mother, draw it mild!