The Bride

I'll put my snowy gown away,
And view it not for many day.
Then nostalgic I’ll reminisce,
How once a virgin yet unkiss’d.
I yearned to be some man’s chattel,
To bear his whelp and tend his cattle.
But if his care prove unrewarding,
Things not unfold as should according,
Reserved have I a means so dire,
That his soul would pray for fire.