BUSH BALLADS AND RHYMES 



Let the sin be mine as the shame was hers, 

 In desolate days of departed years 



She had leisure for shame and sorrow — 

 There was light repentance and brief remorse, 

 When I rode against Saxon foes or Norse 

 With clang of harness and clatter of horse. 



And little heed for the morrow. 



And now she is dead, men tell me, and I, 

 In this living death must I linger and lie 



Till my cup to the dregs is drunken ? 

 I looked through the lattice, worn and 



grim, 

 With eyelids darken'd and eyesight dim, 

 And weary body and wasted limb, 



And sinew slacken'd and shrunken. 



She is dead ! Gone down to the burial-place 

 Where the grave-dews cleave to her faultless 



face ; 



Where the grave-sods crumble around 



her ; 



And that bright burden of burnish'd gold 



That once on those waxen shoulders roll'd, 



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