A Corsican Dirge

I set forth from the calanche

Ere the dawn begins to hover.

Torch in hand I wander seeking

In the orchard, through the cover,

Seeking till I find my father.

But they've slain him, it is ever.

Higher up the slope, O comrade,

Thou wilt find Matteo sleeping;

He who lies here is my father,

And this is my place for weeping.

Gather up his tools and bring them,

With his apron of brown leather.

Father wilt thou not be going

To thy work this sunny weather?

Father slain and brother wounded,

They have slain them both together.

Fetch me here my scissors quickly,

Do not linger in the going,

I will straight cut off my tresses,

Staunch with them the red wounds flowing,

For my father's blood in crimson

Stains upon my hand is showing.

I will steep my kerchief, father,

In thy life-blood, that thereafter

I may wear it whensoever

I am moved to idle laughter.

Up and down the hill I wander,

Past the Holy Stations, crying

Always after thee, my father:

Do but speak one word replying.

They have crucified him, even

Like the Saviour's crucifying.