The Vikings came to rape and pillage <br />And killed my Liam strapped to his tillage; <br />They took my Meg before my eyes <br />And laughed at all her mother’s cries. <br /> <br />I begged them not to kill my son <br />My little babe, my precious one; <br />But they hewed him with their heavy swords <br />And smeared his gore on broken boards. <br /> <br />What rich rewards, a copper kettle, <br />A chance to show their Viking mettle; <br />A hut of mud and woven wattle, <br />A sod-stained farmer, a broken bottle. <br /> <br />They burned our hut and cooked the goat, <br />Then pushed us to their Dragon boat <br />I watched the smoke rise in the bay <br />As busily they rowed away. <br /> <br />Now they sail the distant coasts; <br />These ruthless men of deed and boast; <br />They take me and my frightened child <br />When they’re drunk and roaring wild. <br /> <br />I light the fire when we land and settle <br />And boil their oats in my own kettle. <br />Megan died bruised in my arms <br />Despite my ken of spells and charms. <br /> <br />They tossed Meg’s body overboard <br />Three miles out from foggy shore. <br />I lived a ghost of cold and ice; <br />They fished me from the water twice. <br /> <br />I cook and mend now in their village, <br />A slave sold as a share of pillage; <br />I feed his babe, Black Jorgenson, <br />This tender man who killed my son. <br /> <br />Why I live, I know not why, <br />Half dead with sorrow, too tired to cry; <br />A habit left to gasp and breathe, <br />To wipe my nose upon my sleeve? <br /> <br />They laugh and tease before the hearth, <br />They feast and joke, weave woolen scarves; <br />A family warm and safe with cheer; <br />While from my kettle they drink my beer.<br /><br />David McLansky<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/copper-kettle/
