"Why, mourn, dear maid,
Alone, forlorn,
White and afraid
Beside the thorn,
With weeping eyes and sobbing breath
And fair sweet face as pale as death?
"For love repayed
By Mary's scorn,
I weep, betrayed
By one unborn!
Where can a poor lass hide her head
Till day be done and she be dead!"
The voice and playing lingered among the golden shadows, hushed to a
whisper, ceased.
"Is it very old, that sad little song?" he asked at last.
"My mother wrote it.... There is the _Mea Culpa_, still, which ends
it. Shall I sing it?"
"Go on," he nodded.
So she sang the _Mea Culpa_: