Part 4

Her voice is sweet and fine, but the voice of my
intended is finer.

"And when her grave was dug,
a small hole it was, for she was a little thing,
even big with child she was a little thing.
He walked below her, back and forth,
rehearsing his speach, thus:
Good evening, my darling, my love,
my, but you look a treat in the moon's light,
mother of my child-to-be. Come let me hold you.
And he'd embrace the midnight air with one hand,
and with the other, holding his short but wicked
knife
he'd stab and stab the night.

"She trembled in her oak above him. Breathed so
softly,
but still she shook. And once he looked up and said,
Owls, perhaps? and another time My! is that a sweet pussy cat
up there? Here puss...
But she was still.
He tock his mattock, spade and knife and left
grumbling and cursing his prey.