Anna Wickham

THROW me from the house—did he?

Well, to new chivalry that is no great thing!

I am my father’s daughter, lady!

And he’s a pretty figure in the ring.

But my man, my master, there he sat a-dreaming

While all the house might burn and he’d not sorrow;

Nor had I any warrant that his scheming

Would bring us any victory on the morrow.

And I spoke to him! Oh, I informed him!

He’d be a dead man if he were not stung;

Could any man keep hands down, and me lashing?

Friend, you insult my tongue!

I’d rather he fought me than missed his combats,

Though I’m not built for blows upon the heart.

Give me a breast-plate, and I’ll at ’em,

Though that’s fool-woman’s part!

I love him; and when he comes back with honor

After the fight I drove him to is won,

He’ll find his woman with her glory on her.

Please God, the child’s a son!