The Pilgrimage to Kevlaar

I.
At the window stood the mother,
In bed the sick son lay ;
" Will you not get up, William,
And see them marching away ? "

" I am so ill, O mother,
That I cannot hear or see !
I think of my dead Maggie,
And my heart is broken in me."

" Get up ; we will to Kevlaar,
Take missal and rosarie ;
The Mother of God our Saviour
Will heal thy heart for thee."

They wave the broad church-banners,
They chant the holy song ;
And through Cologne on the Rhine stream,
The procession draws along.

The mother follows the pilgrims,
And her sick son leadeth she ;
And their voices join in the chorale :
" Blessed be thou, Marie ! "

II.
The Mother of God at Kevlaar
To-day wears her richest dress ;
To-day she will be right busy.
Such numbers come in distress.

And all the poor sick people
Bring with them offerings meet ;
They are little waxen figures,
Many waxen hands and feet.

And who a wax hand offers,
His hand's wound hurts no more ;
And who a wax foot offers.
His foot is healed of its sore.

To Kevlaar went many on crutches,
Who now can dance all night ;
And many now play on the viol
Whose fingers were helpless quite.

The mother took a wax-light,
And thereout shaped a heart :
" Take that to our dear Lord's Mother,
And she will cure thy smart."

Sighing he took the wax heart
And knelt to the holy form ;
The tears from his eyes outstreaming,
And the words from his heart blood-warm :

" Thou blessed among women,
God's Virgin pure from taint,
Thou Queen of the highest Heaven,
To thee I bring my plaint !

" I lived with my dear mother
In the city of Cologne,
The city for many hundreds
Of churches and chapels known.

" And next to us lived Maggie,
She lived, she lives not now :
Marie, I bring thee a wax heart,
My bleeding heart heal thou !

" Heal thou my heart sore wounded,
And early and late to thee
Will I sing and pray with fervour
Blessed be thou, Marie ! "

III.
The sick son and his mother
Were sleeping from all ill,
When lo, the Mother of Jesus
Came gliding in so still.

She bent down over the sick one,
And softly laid her hand
Upon his heart ; then vanished
Smiling sweet and bland.

The mother saw all in her dreaming,
And fain had seen yet more ;
But she was roused from slumber,
The dogs made such uproar.

There lay outstretched beside her
Her son, and he was dead ;
On the pallid features sparkled
The light of the morning red.

The mother folded her hands then, She felt so wistfully ;
Devoutly sang she softly :
" Blessed be thou, Marie ! "