Slave of the Fire
I am weary of my service to the blood of a king,
For my people were farmers out of the West,
I would be wife to this yeoman of whom my heart sings,
In his strong love, I would take my rest.
O! That I might raise a man to my kind,
Shelter him in my womb, and feed him with my mind.
For my people were farmers out of the West,
I would be wife to this yeoman of whom my heart sings,
In his strong love, I would take my rest.
O! That I might raise a man to my kind,
Shelter him in my womb, and feed him with my mind.
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