Because I bid her clean the pots for supper She took that old book down out of the thatch ; She has been doubled over it ever since . We should be deafened by her groans and moans Had she to work as some do , Father Hart ; Get up at dawn like me and mend and scour ; Or ride abroad in the boisterous night like you , The pyx and blessed bread under your arm . You 've married her , And fear to vex her and so take her part . MAURTEEN It is but right that youth should side with youth She quarrels with my wife a bit at times , And is too deep just now in the old book But do not blame her greatly ; she will grow As quiet as a puff-ball in a tree When but the moons of marriage dawn and die For half a score of times . She would not mind the kettle , milk the cow , Or even lay the knives and spread the cloth . She 's old enough to know that it is wrong To mope and idle . She 'd never do a turn if I were silent . And maybe , Father , what he said was true ; For there is not another night in the year So wicked as to-night . The good people beg for milk and fire Upon May Eve — woe to the house that gives , For they have power upon it for a year . She 's given milk away . I knew she would bring evil on the house . I am afraid . You are the fool of every pretty face , And I must spare and pinch that my son 's wife May have all kinds of ribbons for her head . You 've given milk and fire Upon the unluckiest night of the year and brought , For all you know , evil upon the house . Before you married you were idle and fine And went about with ribbons on your head ; And now — no , Father , I will speak my mind She is not a fitting wife for any man — You know well How calling the good people by that name , Or talking of them over much at all , May bring all kinds of evil on the house . You have a comely shape . I 'll warm your chilly feet . I have some honey . She is the child of gentle people ; look At her white hands and at her pretty dress . I 've brought you some new milk , but wait a while And I will put it to the fire to warm , For things well fitted for poor folk like us Would never please a high-born child like you . The young are idle . I have begun to be afraid again . That would be sacrilege ! She is blaspheming . Do not leave us . Come from that image ; body and soul are gone You have thrown your arms about a drift of leaves , Or bole of an ash-tree changed into her image .