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The song of a rebel

by
Anthony M. Ludovici

The Daily Herald
Reprinted in Mansel Fellowes, pp. 7–9


1

I am still a maid, dear mother,
Though three years ago to-day
You did gather up my hair and hide my feet.
And I grow aweary, weary,
When I watch the children play;
For my heart wants something more to make it beat.

2

        Don't be freakish, little woman!
        See! without the sun is bright,
        And the lambs across the pastures frisk and bleat.
        And the hawthorn on the hedgerow
        Blossomed forth this very night,
        Pray, what more do you want to make your girl's heart beat?

3

I am still a maid, dear mother,
And the church across the moor,
Whose shrill chimes throughout my childhood seemed so sweet,
Fills me now with pangs of hunger
Quite unlike my dreams of yore;
For my heart wants something more to make it beat.

4

        Take up your basket, my daughter,
        And your little sister Sue.
        Gather mushrooms ere the scorching midday heat
        Dries the hill-side and the meadow
        And the dripping coppice too;
        You will find that this will make your young heart beat.

5

I am still a maid, dear mother,
And at nightfall when I go
To the bed where once you taught me to repeat
My short prayer, oh, how lonely
I now feel you do not know;
For my heart wants something more to make it beat.

6

        Hush, oh, hush, my darling daughter!
        Add one sentence to your pray'r,
        And just trust in God the Father, I entreat.
        You have years of life before you,
        And are still both young and fair;
        There is time enough for your girl's heart to beat.

7

I am still a maid, dear mother,
And when looking in my glass
I bethink me why men eye me in the street;
I bemoan their silent language
Or their whispered praise, alas!
For my heart wants something more to make it beat.

8

        You are still a maid, my daughter;
        But you're still a girl, my child.
        Be but patient and to-morrow you will meet
        Just the lad of whom you're worthy,
        Just the lad to be beguiled
        By a mate whose heart is bursting for to beat.

9

I am still a maid, dear mother —
Are you heeding what I say? —
And my beauty threatens flight on pinions fleet.
I am sick of Sue and Lucy,
And of Margery and May;
For my heart wants something more to make it beat.

10

        You are still quite young, my daughter,
        You have nothing yet to dread;
        Tough your cheeks, it's true, are white as any sheet.
        For the village lads are timid,
        And the menfolk all are wed;
        But you'll find one yet to make your warm heart beat.

11

I am still a maid, but, mother,
E'en my longing long has fled,
Like the roundness of my limbs, which God, the Cheat,
Did but give me for to flout me!
Oh, I wish that I were dead!
For my heart wants nothing now to make it beat.

12

        Peace, oh peace, my shrewish daughter!
        Here's the basket for the Squire;
        To the Vicar take the butter and the beet.
        And don't tarry to the village,
        But return to mother's fire;
        It's not safe for maids to linger in the street.

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