The Cruel Mother-In-Law

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Title:     The Cruel Mother-In-Law
Author: George Borrow [More Titles by Borrow]

From his home and his country Sir Volmor should fare,
His wife he commends to his mother's best care.

Proud Lyborg she sang, as the dancers she watched,
Behind stood Dame Ingeborg, malice she hatched.

"To live to the Fall if the luck I enjoy
Fair lady, thy beautiful voice I'll destroy."

Proud Lyborg's fair maidens upon the floor sprang,
And all through the evening she unto them sang.

But alack two short summer days scarcely had pass'd,
When in desperate sickness proud Lyborg lay fast.

Proud Lyborg fell sick, and lay stretched on her bed,
Then backwards and forwards Dame Ingeborg sped.

"Now hear me, Dame Ingeborg, dear mother mine,
Do bring me, I pray, either water or wine."

"The water is frozen, and frozen the wine,
And frozen the tap in each barrel of mine.

"The door it is locked, and the keys are away,
But where, daughter dear, by the Saints I can't say."

"If I can nor water nor wine from thee win,
Then open the door that the dew may rush in.

"Cause the door to the North to be wide open set,
Then my feverish frame cool refreshment shall get."

"The door to the South I'll have straightway undone,
That the hot sun may flash in thy visage upon."

"O would there were one that for sweet pity's sake,
To my mother a message in secret would take."

Then answer'd proud Lyborg's own little foot-boy:
"Your message in secret I'll carry with joy."

That they were alone they with confidence thought;
Dame Ingeborg stood nigh, and every word caught.

The lad he upsprang on his courser so high,
He galloped as fast as the winged birds fly.

In, in came the lad, in a kirtle red drest:
"Your daughter, Dame Lyborg, in death will soon rest.

"She bids you to come with all possible quickness,
To live through this night she can't hope from her sickness."

Straight unto her servants proud Mettelil says:
"My horses go fetch from the meads where they graze."

The horses they galloped, the chariot wheels turned,
Throughout the long day whilst the summer heat burned.

The midsummer's sun with such fury it glows
Proud Lyborg swoons 'neath it in terrible throes.

A purse takes Dame Ingeborg fraught with gold treasure,
And she speeds to the hall, her heart bounding with pleasure.

"Whosoever will gold and will bounty derive,
Let him help me to bury proud Lyborg alive."

Soon as she of the gold distribution had made,
Below the black earth the fair lily they laid.

To the gate of the castle proud Mettelil came,
Dame Ingeborg stood there, and leaned on the same.

"Proud Ingeborg, hear what I say unto thee:
What hast done with my daughter? declare that to me!"

"But yesterday 'twas that with sorrowful mind,
Her corse to the arms of the grave we consign'd."

"Proud Ingeborg, hush thee, nor talk in this guise,
But show me the grave where my dear daughter lies."

As soon as Dame Mettelil o'er the place trod,
Proud Lyborg she screamed underneath the green sod.

"Whoever will gold and will silver obtain,
Let him help me to dig now with might and with main."

They took up proud Lyborg, all there as she lay,
Her mother flung o'er her the scarlet array.

"Now tell to me, Lyborg, thou child of my heart,
Since restored to the arms of thy mother thou art,

"What death to thy thinking should Ingeborg thole,
For placing thee living in horrid grave-hole?"

"To destroy my young life it is true, she was bent,
But let her live, mother, and let her repent."

"That she go unpunished I cannot permit,
I'll teach her what 'tis on a fire to sit."

To two of her servants proud Mettelil spake:
"Do ye quickly a fire on the open field make.

"Do ye cut down the oak and the bonny ash-tree,
That the fire by them fed may burn brilliant and free."

Dame Ingeborg forth from the house they convey'd,
And they burnt her to dust on the fire they had made.

Sir Volmor came home from the red field of strife,
Then tidings assailed him, with dolour so rife.

Then tidings assailed him, with dolour so rife,
Burnt, burnt was his mother, and flown was his wife.

He bade for proud Lyborg of red gold a store,
But he could the lily obtain nevermore.

[The end]
George Borrow's poem: The Cruel Mother-In-Law

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