The Parting Girl

O take the wedding-ring away,
And take the wedding-kerchief, pray!
O take them back—it may not be—
I must not share my fate with thee.

Alas! my sisters are thy foes,
And father, mother, friends oppose;
O blame me not, it was not I—
I struggled 'gainst the misery.

Could I have will'd, a different lot
Were thine and mine—O blame me not!
I am a poor and feeble one,
Whom pity might look down upon.

O'er me there shines a baleful star,
Whose rays of disappointment are;
The spring for me hath doff'd its bloom,
And comes all clad in garb of gloom.

I plant young roses—and the rose
To briars and to wormwood grows;
O wormwood! wormwood! plant of death,
Of thee I'll twine myself a wreath.

Thou shalt my bridal-garland be,
To crown a sad festivity;
Then in the peasant's hats shalt wave,
When I am carried to my grave.