| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | King Alfred and the Peasant Woman | | By 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 | 5 |
| 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; | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| 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! | 20 | | | |
|
|
