Part 36

O mother, my mother, this thing I must say: There is a rose in the garden; Ere he lies on the breast where that other lay: And the bird sings over the roses.

Now, folly, my daughter, for men are men: There is a rose in the garden; You marry them blindfold, I tell you again: And the bird sings over the roses.

O mother, but when he kisses me! There is a rose in the garden; My child, ’tis which shall sweetest be! And the bird sings over the roses.

O mother, but when I awake in the morn! There is a rose in the garden; My child, you are his, and the ring is worn: And the bird sings over the roses.

Tall Margaret sighed and loosened a tress: There is a rose in the garden; Poor comfort she had of her comeliness And the bird sings over the roses.

My mother will sink if this thing be said: There is a rose in the garden; That my first betrothed came thrice to my bed; And the bird sings over the roses.

He died on my shoulder the third cold night: There is a rose in the garden; I dragged his body all through the moonlight: And the bird sings over the roses.

But when I came by my father’s door: There is a rose in the garden; I fell in a lump on the stiff dead floor: And the bird sings over the roses.

O neither to heaven, nor yet to hell: There is a rose in the garden; Could I follow the lover I loved so well! And the bird sings over the roses.

III

The bridesmaids slept in their chambers apart: There is a rose that’s ready; Tall Margaret walked with her thumping heart: There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.

The frill of her nightgown below the left breast: There is a rose that’s ready; Had fall’n like a cloud of the moonlighted West: There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.

But where the West-cloud breaks to a star: There is a rose that’s ready; Pale Margaret’s breast showed a winding scar: There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.

O few are the brides with such a sign! There is a rose that’s ready; Though I went mad the fault was mine: There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.

I must speak to him under this roof to-night: There is a rose that’s ready; I shall burn to death if I speak in the light: There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.

O my breast! I must strike you a bloodier wound: There is a rose that’s ready; Than when I scored you red and swooned: There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.

I will stab my honour under his eye: There is a rose that’s ready; Though I bleed to the death, I shall let out the lie: There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.

O happy my bridesmaids! white sleep is with you! There is a rose that’s ready; Had he chosen among you he might sleep too! There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.

O happy my bridesmaids! your breasts are clean: There is a rose that’s ready; You carry no mark of what has been! There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.

An hour before the chilly beam: Red rose and white in the garden; The bridegroom started out of a dream: And the bird sings over the roses.

He went to the door, and there espied: Red rose and white in the garden; The figure of his silent bride: And the bird sings over the roses.

He went to the door, and let her in: Red rose and white in the garden; Whiter looked she than a child of sin: And the bird sings over the roses.

She looked so white, she looked so sweet: Red rose and white in the garden; She looked so pure he fell at her feet: And the bird sings over the roses.

He fell at her feet with love and awe: Red rose and white in the garden; A stainless body of light he saw: And the bird sings over the roses.

O Margaret, say you are not of the dead! Red rose and white in the garden; My bride! by the angels at night are you led? And the bird sings over the roses.

I am not led by the angels about: Red rose and white in the garden; But I have a devil within to let out: And the bird sings over the roses.

O Margaret! my bride and saint! Red rose and white in the garden; There is on you no earthly taint: And the bird sings over the roses.

I am no saint, and no bride can I be: Red rose and while in the garden; Until I have opened my bosom to thee: And the bird sings over the roses.