From his crown to his heels he was clad all in red, And his hair like a flame on his shoulders was shed; Not a word spake he, but clutching her hand, Led her off through the darkness to Shadowland.
What befell her there no mortal can tell, But it must have been things indescribable, For when she returned, at last, alone, Her beauty was dead, and her youth was gone.
They gather'd about her: she shook her head --She had been through Hell--that was all she said In answer to whens, and hows, and whys; So they took her word, for she never told lies.
And now, they say, when the sun goes down This queer little woman, all shrivell'd and brown Turns into a beautiful lass, once more, With gold-stranded hair and soft eyes of yore,
And out of the hills in the stills and the gloams Her beautiful fabulous lover comes, In scarlet doublet and red silken hose, To woo her again--till the Chanticleer crows.
And she, poor old crone, sits up on her hill Through the long dreary night, till the dawn turns chill, And suffers in silence and patience alway, In the hope that God will forgive, some day.
See-Saw! Margery Daw! Sold her bed to lie upon straw; Was she not a dirty slut To sell her bed, and live in dirt?
And yet perchance, were the circumstance But known, of Margery's grim romance, As sacred a veil might cover her then As the pardon which fell on the Magdalen.
It's a story told so often, so old, So drearily common, so wearily cold: A man's adventure,--a poor girl's fall-- And a sinless scapegoat born--that's all.
She was simple and young, and the song was sung With so sweet a voice, in so strange a tongue, That she follow'd blindly the Devil-song Till the ground gave way, and she lay headlong.
And then: not a word, not a plea for her heard, Not a hand held out to the one who had err'd, Her Christian sisters foremost to condemn-- God pity the woman who falls before them!
They closed the door for evermore On the contrite heart which repented sore, And she stood alone, in the outer night, To feed her baby as best she might.
So she sold her bed, for its daily bread, The gown off her back, the shawl off her head, Till her all lay piled on the pawner's shelf, Then she clinch'd her teeth and sold herself.