A coffin for my mother! Oh, I will make it wide, And cushion it with pine boughs Soft inside. I'll pluck the goose, I'll shear the sheep, Steal the marten's fur; My spoils shall pad the fragrant leaf To make a bed for her. A shroud for my dear mother! Oh, I will have it white -- (A cruel use for linen That graced her wedding night.) I'll drape the shroud, I'll pin it soft, Make of it a gown As rich as any lad could buy In any seacoast town. A grave for my dead mother! Oh, I will make it deep, Lest roots that bore in hunger Disturb her utter sleep. I'll make the coffin, grave, and shroud, I'll bury love today: There are no hands but mine to serve, No lips but mine to pray. |