They whisper at my very gate,
These clacking gossips every one,
“We saw them in the wood of late,
Her and the widow's son;
The horses at the forge may wait,
The wool may go unspun.”
I spread the food he loves the best,
I light the lamp when day is done,
Yet still he stays another's guest —
Oh, my one son, my son.
I would it burned in mine own breast
The spell he may not shun.
She hath bewitched him with her eyes.
( No goodly maid hath eyes as bright. )
Pale in the morn I watch him rise,
As one who wanders far by night.
The gossips whisper and surmise —
I hide me from the light.