The Mower-Girl
“A fair good morning, Mary! What? so soon upon the move?
Thou art not sunk in sloth, true maid, tho' sunk so deep in love.
Then if thou canst within three days this meadow mow for me,
No more will I withhold my son, my only child, from thee!”
'Twas thus the wealthy farmer spake, with flocks and fields endowed;
How Mary 'neath her bosom feels her heart beat fast and loud!
Through ev'ry limb she feels a new, a bracing influence flow;
How strongly now she sways the scythe, and lays the swathes full low!
Now noonday glows, the mowers tired now cease their tasks to ply;
They seek the brook to quench their thirst, cool shade in which to lie;
But still the bees with busy hum flit o'er the parching field,
And Mary in unresting toil not e'en to them will yield.
The sun sinks down, the vesper-bell bids men to rest and pray;
Her neighbours all to Mary call—“Enough thou'st done to-day!”
The mowers go, the shepherds soon drive home the fleecy ewes,
But Mary whets her scythe once more, and straight her toil renews.
Soon falls the dew, soon brightly gleam the moon and many a star,
The swathes smell sweet, the nightingale is faintly heard afar;
But Mary hath no wish to rest, or hear the plaintive lay,
She only cares to swing the scythe with measured forceful sway.
So onward still from eve to morn, from morn to evening red,
With happy hope alone refreshed, with love's sweet fancies fed.
When for the third time rose the sun, the weary task was o'er,
Behold where Mary resting stands, and tears of joy doth pour!
“A fair good morning, Mary! What? Can hands so nimble be?
The meadow mown? A rich reward I'll surely find for thee;
But as to marriage, girl, thou hast in earnest ta'en my jest,
For loving hearts are credulous, and foolish hearts at best!”
He spake, he went; but motionless behold poor Mary stay;
She feels her heart grow numb and chill, her trembling knees give way;
Deprived of speech, her feelings dead, her understanding flown,
'Twas thus they found the mower-girl, 'mid swathes but newly mown.
So lives she still these many years, in mute and listless mood;
A few thick drops of honey sweet are now her only food;
Oh keep for her a ready grave in yonder flowery lea,
For never yet poor mower-girl so fondly loved as she!
Thou art not sunk in sloth, true maid, tho' sunk so deep in love.
Then if thou canst within three days this meadow mow for me,
No more will I withhold my son, my only child, from thee!”
'Twas thus the wealthy farmer spake, with flocks and fields endowed;
How Mary 'neath her bosom feels her heart beat fast and loud!
Through ev'ry limb she feels a new, a bracing influence flow;
How strongly now she sways the scythe, and lays the swathes full low!
Now noonday glows, the mowers tired now cease their tasks to ply;
They seek the brook to quench their thirst, cool shade in which to lie;
But still the bees with busy hum flit o'er the parching field,
And Mary in unresting toil not e'en to them will yield.
The sun sinks down, the vesper-bell bids men to rest and pray;
Her neighbours all to Mary call—“Enough thou'st done to-day!”
The mowers go, the shepherds soon drive home the fleecy ewes,
But Mary whets her scythe once more, and straight her toil renews.
Soon falls the dew, soon brightly gleam the moon and many a star,
The swathes smell sweet, the nightingale is faintly heard afar;
But Mary hath no wish to rest, or hear the plaintive lay,
She only cares to swing the scythe with measured forceful sway.
So onward still from eve to morn, from morn to evening red,
With happy hope alone refreshed, with love's sweet fancies fed.
When for the third time rose the sun, the weary task was o'er,
Behold where Mary resting stands, and tears of joy doth pour!
“A fair good morning, Mary! What? Can hands so nimble be?
The meadow mown? A rich reward I'll surely find for thee;
But as to marriage, girl, thou hast in earnest ta'en my jest,
For loving hearts are credulous, and foolish hearts at best!”
He spake, he went; but motionless behold poor Mary stay;
She feels her heart grow numb and chill, her trembling knees give way;
Deprived of speech, her feelings dead, her understanding flown,
'Twas thus they found the mower-girl, 'mid swathes but newly mown.
So lives she still these many years, in mute and listless mood;
A few thick drops of honey sweet are now her only food;
Oh keep for her a ready grave in yonder flowery lea,
For never yet poor mower-girl so fondly loved as she!
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