The Complaint of the Young Wife

Her labouring hands the meal must knead,
Her busy toil must bake the bread;
The priest may read his records o'er:
The lord and master take the air:
But there is nought but grievous care
And heavy labour for the poor.

As from the rock the mad cascade
Falls—so did I—a thoughtless maid—
Wed—when it had been well to tarry.
O could I be a maid again,
That man must be a man of men,
Who should seduce the maid to marry!