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Poetry
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| Plague | |
| By Merrybegot | ||||||
| 17 December 2006 | ||||||
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Plague Come here childer, Sit by your mother’s knee. I hath something to tell you both, Something that has happened ungratefully. Do not look so scared daughter Do not look so worried son. Myself and your father, We are no longer as one. Oh! Deary me oh! Your father had the Plague We must stay here and mayhap catch this terrible ague And one day soon we too may have to go. We shall cope, my dears, Oh aye, we shall cope as well as we can. We have managed in the past before, Your father never was a healthy man. My dear childer, All we can do now is wait. Unless you pray to the Lord for mercy, But I am sure we shall be taken by this fate. Now come here childer into my arms, And rest your heads upon my chest. Weep if you very must, Until you feel entirely at rest.
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