Mistress Agnes in the streamlet
comes to wash her linen sheet;
downward is the blood-stained cover
carried by the current fleet –
Lord, Father of Mercy, protect us!
“Mistress Agnes, what’s that laundry?”
urchins goad her from the street,
“Children, go away, keep quiet;
chicken’s blood has stained my sheet.”
Lord, Father of Mercy, protect us!
Neighbors’ wives then come, keep asking:
“Where’s your husband, Agnes, say?”
“Why, my dears, at home he’s sleeping,
do not go and wake him, pray!”
Lord, Father of Mercy, protect us!
“Mistress Agnes,” says the sheriff,
“come to prison now with me.”
“Oh, my dove, I cannot go till
from all stains this sheet is free.”
Lord, Father of Mercy, protect us!
Deep the prison, one ray only
brings to its shades feeble light;
this is one gleam is all that shines there,
ghosts and visions crowd the night,
Lord, Father of Mercy, protect us!
All day long poor Mistress Agnes
facing this faint glimmer sits;
looks and stares at it unceasing
As before her eyes it flits.
Lord, Father of Mercy, protect us!
For whenever she looks elsewhere
ghosts appear before her eyes;
did this one ray not console her?
Sure, she thinks, her reason flies.
Lord, Father of Mercy, protect us!
In the course of time, her prison
opens, and she is now led
to the court; before the judges
stands she, without fear or dread.
Lord, Father of Mercy, protect us!
She is dressed with such precision
one might almost think her vain;
even her hair’s smooth and plaited
lest they think she’s gone insane.
Lord, Father of Mercy, protect us!
In the hall around the table
sit the judges in concern;
full of pity they regard her,
none is angry, none too stern.
Lord, Father of Mercy, protect us!
“Child, what have you done? Come, tell us,
grave’s the charge against you pressed;
he, your lover, who committed
this foul crime has just confessed!”
Lord, Father of Mercy, protect us!
“He shall hang at noon tomorrow,
since your husband he has killed;
as for you, a life-long captive
you must be, the court has willed.”
Lord, Father of Mercy, protect us!
Mistress Agnes, seeking clearness,
strives to smooth her troubled mind;
hears the voice and knows the sentence,
clear of brain herself must find.
Lord, Father of Mercy, protect us!
What they say about her husband
she can’t even comprehend;
only understands that homeward
more her way she may not wend.
Lord, Father of Mercy, protect us!
Forthwith she commences weeping,
freely flow her tears as showers;
like the wet from swans’ down rolling,
dew-drops from the lilac flowers.
Lord, Father of Mercy, protect us!
“Oh, dear Sirs and Excellencies,
look to God, I pray of you;
I cannot remain in prison,
for I’ve work at home to do.”
Lord, Father of Mercy, protect us!
“For a stain is on my linen,
blood that I must wash away –
God! If I should fail to cleanse it,
dread things might come our way.”
Lord, Father of Mercy, protect us!
Then, at this appeal, the judges
glance at each other aghast;
all are silent, mute their voices,
by their eyes the vote is cast.
Lord, Father of Mercy, protect us!
“You are free! Go home, poor woman;
go and wash your linen sheet;
wash it clean and may God strengthen
and with mercy you entreat!”
Lord, Father of Mercy, protect us!
And poor Agnes in the streamlet
goes to wash her linen sheet;
downward is her now clean cover
carried by the current fleet –
Lord, Father of Mercy, protect us!
Snow-white long has been her linen,
there’s no trace of red-blood stain;
yet poor Agnes can’t but see it,
blood-red still she sees it plain.
Lord, Father of Mercy, protect us!
From the early dawn till evening,
sitting there, she scrubs the sheet;
water sways her trembling shadow,
winds her grizzled tressed greet.
Lord, Father of Mercy, protect us!
When the streamlet in the moonlight
shimmers, and her mallet gleams,
by the streamlet’s bank she washes,
sIowly beating, as in dreams.
Lord, Father of Mercy, protect us!
Thus from year’s end unto year’s end
winter, summer, all year through,
heat withers her dew-soft cheek, and
frost her feeble knees make blue.
Lord, Father of Mercy, protect us!
And her grizzled hair turns snowy,
raven, ebon ’tis no more;
while her fair, soft face of wrinkles
– sorry sight – augments its store.
Lord, Father of Mercy, protect us!
Mistress Agnes in the streamlet
keeps washing her ragged sheet;
downward are the cover’s remnants
carried by the current fleet.
Lord, Father of Mercy, protect us!
(Translated by William N. Loew and Adam Makkai)
