At play they are 'clumsy,' At table they're 'gluttons'! And somebody threatens To punish my children-- 110 They slap them and pinch them! Be silent, you mother! You wife of a soldier!" * * * * * "I now have no part In the village allotments, No share in the building, The clothes, and the cattle, And these are my riches: Three lakes of salt tear-drops, Three fields sown with grief!" 120 * * * * * "And now, like a sinner, I bow to the neighbours; I ask their forgiveness; I hear myself saying, 'Forgive me for being So haughty and proud! I little expected That God, for my pride, Would have left me forsaken! I pray you, good people, 130 To show me more wisdom, To teach me to live And to nourish my children, What food they should have, And what drink, and what teaching.'" * * * * * "I'm sending my children To beg in the village; 'Go, children, beg humbly, But dare not to steal.' The children are sobbing, 140 'It's cold, little Mother, Our clothes are in rags; We are weary of passing From doorway to doorway; We stand by the windows And shiver. We're frightened To beg of the rich folk; The poor ones say, ''God will Provide for the orphans!'' We cannot come home, 150 For if we bring nothing We know you'll be angry!'" * * * * * "To go to God's church I have made myself tidy; I hear how the neighbours Are laughing around me: 'Now who is she setting Her cap at?' they whisper." * * * * * "Don't wash yourself clean. And don't dress yourself nicely; 160 The neighbours are sharp-- They have eyes like the eagle And tongues like the serpent. Walk humbly and slowly, Don't laugh when you're cheerful, Don't weep when you're sad." * * * * * "The dull, endless winter Has come, and the fields And the pretty green meadows Are hidden away 170 'Neath the snow. Nothing living Is seen in the folds Of the gleaming white grave-clothes. No friend under Heaven There is for the woman, The wife of the soldier. Who knows what her thoughts are? Who cares for her words? Who is sad for her sorrow? And where can she bury 180 The insults they cast her? Perhaps in the woods?-- But the woods are all withered! Perhaps in the meadows?-- The meadows are frozen! The swift little stream?-- But its waters are sleeping! No,--carry them with you To hide in your grave!" * * * * *