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Oh mother, mother! for love of me, Now make my bed, and speedily, For I am sick as a man may be.

Oh, never the tale to my ladye tell; Three days and ye’ll hear my passing-bell; The Corrigaun hath cast her spell.”

Three days they pass’d, three days were sped, To her mother-in-law the ladye said:

Now tell me, madam, now tell me, pray, Wherefore the death-bells toll to-day?

Why chaunt the priests in the street below, All clad in their vestments white as snow?”

A strange poor man, who harbour’d here, He died last night, my daughter dear.”

But tell me, madam, my lord, your son— My husband—whither is he gone?”

But to the town, my child, he’s gone; And at your side he’ll be back anon.”

What gown for my churching wer’t best to wear,— My gown of grain, or of watchet fair?”

The fashion of late, my child, hath grown, That women for churching black should don.”

As through the churchyard porch she stept, She saw the grave where her husband slept.

Who of our blood is lately dead, That our ground is new raked and spread?”

The truth I may no more forbear, My son—your own poor lord—lies there!”

She threw herself on her knees amain, And from her knees ne’er rose again.

That night they laid her, dead and cold, Beside her lord, beneath the mould; When, lo!—a marvel to behold!—

Next morn from the grave two oak-trees fair, Shot lusty boughs high up in air;

And in their boughs—oh, wondrous sight!— Two happy doves, all snowy white—

That sang, as ever the morn did rise, And then flew up—into the skies!

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