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O hear me, hear me, Lord in Heaven,
woman, at whose house Young Edward wooed his wife.
By night and day, in bed and bower,
O let her cursed be !!!
from her knee !
The church-door enter'd she.
She rose up
I saw poor Ellen kneeling still,
So pale ! I guess'd not why :
And when the prayers were done, we all
Came round and ask'd her why : Giddy she seem’d, and, sure, there was A trouble in her
But ere she from the church-door stepp'd
She smild and told us why: " It was a wicked woman's curse"
Quoth she, “and what care I ?”
She smil'd, and smil'd, and pass'd it off
E’er from the door she stept-
Much better had she wept.
And if her heart was not at ease,
This was her constant cry-
God's good, and what care 1 ?"
There was a hurry in her looks,
Her struggles she redoubled :
And why should I be troubled ?”
These tears will comeI dandled her
When 'twas the merest fairy-
She told it not to Mary.
But Mary heard the tale : her arms
Round Ellen's neck she threw; “ O Ellen, Ellen, she curs’d me, And now she hath curs'd
I saw young Edward by himself
Stalk fast adown the lee,
A twig from every tree.
He snapt them still with hand or knee,
And then away they flew ! As if with his uneasy limbs
He knew not what to do!
You see, good sir! that single hill?
His farm lies underneath :
He heard it there, he heard it all,
And only gnash'd his teeth.
Now Ellen was a darling love
In all his joys and cares :
Whene'er he said his prayers.
And in the moment of his
prayers He lov'd them both alike :
Yea, both sweet names with one sweet joy,
Upon his heart did strike!
He reach'd his home, and by his looks
They saw his inward strife :
Both Ellen and his wife,
And Mary could not check her tears,
So on his breast she bow'd; Then Frenzy melted into Grief,
And Edward wept aloud.
Dear Ellen did not weep at all,
But closelier did she cling,
She saw some frightful thing.
To see a man tread over Graves
I hold it no good mark; "Tis wicked in the Sun and Moon,
And bad luck in the dark !
You see that Grave? The Lord, he gives,
The Lord, he takes away :
Lies there as cold as clay.
Except that grave, you scarce see one
That was not dug by me I'd rather dance upon 'em all
Than tread upon these three !
“ Aye, Sexton ! 'tis a touching tale.”
“ You, Sir! are but a lad; This month I'm in my seventieth year,
And still it makes me sad.
And Mary's sister told it me,
For three good hours and more ; Tho' I had heard it, in the main,
From Edward's self, before.
Well! it pass'd off! the gentle Ellen
Did well nigh dote on Mary;
She manag'd all the dairy.
To market she on market-days,
To church on Sundays came;
All seem'd the same: all seem'd so, Sir !
But all was not the same !