And there upon her bed to sit

Astare, as I guess,

Watching her fingers weave and knit,

Bedded in her dress,

A-thinking thoughts in her young mind

Too wild for tears to gain,

As when the roaring North-West wind

Gives no time to the rain.

[Pg 24]

[Pg 24]

 iv 

iv

Give thanks, you maids, that there's your work

To keep your heart and head

From thoughts that lurk in them who shirk

Their daily round to tread.

But she goes bold who feels the hold

And colour of her love

Laid on her task like water-gold

From the lit sky above.

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