Brand.
Woman, on the road to death,
Free thy infant from thy doom;
Free him from thy grief and gloom
Of his birth I'll blot the brand.
The Woman.
Much, sooth, <g>thou</g> dost understand!
Such a wonder none on earth
Can, nor shall do, though he can!
War on you that set the ban,—
Wot ye where it was, that birth?
In a ditch-side, on the ground,
Gamblers drank and shouted round—
Christen'd in the sleety slime,
Cross'd with charcoal-ashes' grime,
Suckled with a spirit-flask;—
When his mother bore him first
There were some stood by and cursed,
Who could they be, do you ask?
Bless you! Why, the baby's father,
Or,—the baby's fathers rather!
Brand.
Agnes?
Agnes.
Yes.
Brand.
Thy duty's clear.
Agnes.
[Shuddering.]
Never! never! Brand, to her!
The Woman.
Give me, give me! Give me all!
