The Ingoldsby Legends, by Thomas Ingoldsby

The Confession.

There’s somewhat on my breast, father,

There’s somewhat on my breast!

The livelong day I sigh, father,

And at night I cannot rest.

I cannot take my rest, father,

Though I would fain do so;

A weary weight oppresseth me —

This weary weight of woe!

’Tis not the lack of gold, father,

Nor want of worldly gear;

My lands are broad, and fair to see,

My friends are kind and dear.

My kin are leal and true, father,

They mourn to see my grief;

But oh! ’tis not a kinsman’s hand,

Can give my heart relief!

’Tis not that Janet’s false, father,

’Tis not that she’s unkind;

Tho’ busy flatterers swarm around —

I know her constant mind.

’Tis not her coldness, father,

That chills my labouring breast,

It’s that confounded cucumber

I’ve eat and can’t digest.

http://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/i/ingoldsby/thomas/ingoldsby_legends/chapter61.html

Last updated Monday, March 17, 2014 at 16:47