Curst be the heart that thought the thought, O, think ye na my heart was sair, When my love dropt down and spake nae mair! There did she swoon wi' meikle care, On fair Kirkconnell lee. As I went down the water-side, I lighted down, my sword did draw, For her sake that died for me. O Helen fair, beyond compare ! O that I were where Helen lies! A poacher's widow sat sighing On the side of the white chalk bank, Where, under the gloomy fir-woods, One spot in the lea throve rank. She watched a long tuft of clover, She thought of the dark plantation, And the hares, and her husband's blood, And the voice of her indignation Rose up to the throne of God. "I am long past wailing and whining,I have wept too much in my life: I've had twenty years of pining As an English laborer's wife. "A laborer in Christian England, Where they cant of a Saviour's name, "There's blood on your new foreign shrubs, squire, And there's blood on the game you eat. "You have sold the laboring man, squire, "You made him a poacher yourself, squire, |