Bridie Muir
The bastard child of Bridie Muir,
Grew up to love this buxom whore,
Who always tried to keep him free,
From the squallid life he now could see,
But now alas she couldn’t hide,
The way of life she lived with pride,
For now he stood with her golden fan,
No more a child - but now a man.
She could see surprise on his manly face,
Which turned as white as his silken lace,
And while she waited for his cry of shame,
She stood there trembling and whispering his name,
Then slowly, slowly, he lifted his arm,
Yet she never shrank from intended harm,
But her child had grown, he could understand,
For all he did was to take her hand.
He led her to a wayside Inn,
Where they ordered ale and a tot of gin,
And as the hour was called by the new town crier,
He bade her sit by the open fire,
Then very gently he stroked her hair,
Untangling twist with infinite care,
And with a teardrop falling from a dark blue eye,
He asked her quietly, “Mother, why?”
She took him back o’er a score of years,
Speaking softly through a veil of tears,
Building a picture of a lonely lass,
An orphan dragged from the peasant class,
She told of dreams she had in the night,
That came to naught in the morning light,
Of standing each day on some busy street,
Begging, in shame, for something to eat.
The clothes she possesed were only rags,
At night she slept with the village hags,
Who told her often, with knowing smiles,
How she could live in a different style,
But their language was vulgar, so very clear,
That it made her shudder, yet the hags were sincere,
For how could she live, even being poor,
If she didn’t earn money by being a whore.
She couldn’t accept a life such as this,
Selling her lips to every mans kiss,
Selling her body for a mans eager thrill,
Though men would pay much for a beautiful girl,
And lovely she was, or so she was told,
In those days, her hair was brighter than gold,
And her body was perfect in both shape and form,
For holding a man and keeping him warm.
Then came the day she could never forget,
It had rained all day and she was bitterly wet,
And the vigil she stood in a now muddy street,
Ended in tears for she got nothing to eat,
The next day was the same, and too the day after,
Drowning out visions of food, drink and laughter,
By now she was desperate, so desperate to live,
That she now gave her pleasures to the rich who could give.
As a virgin she entered the graet fancy towers,
Where the rich all collected and spoke of their powers,
Where old men would wait for a girl such as she,
To lie on the straw for a nominal fee,
And lie there she did while she lost all her pride,
The pain of her body and the agony inside,
Yet the tears that she cried were cried all in vain,
For she knew in her heart she would come back again.
The man who deflowered her was proud of his feet,
So proud that he asked her to sit down and eat,
And after she ate all the house could provide,
He gave her a soverign which she clutched tight with pride,
And as she sat she planned far ahead,
Never again would she eat mouldy bread,
Never again would she be ragged and poor,
Men would pay dearly to have Bridie Muir.
The next day she bought dresses, cheap ones, but nice,
She then had a bath to get rid of her lice,
She hired a room in a quiet country Inn,
Where atleast she’d find comfort from her wages of sin,
And the wages were doubled for gone was the pain,
Gone were the days of standing in rain,
Now were the days where she languished in style,
Awaiting the men travelling many a mile.
From one town to another, from the rich to the poor,
They echoed the name of sweet Bridie Muir,
And many a suiter swore on his life,
To give her the moon if she’d just be his wife,
But she wanted no ties till her plans were complete,
Had not these same men made her beg on the street,
Hadn’t they passed her when she was in need,
Of friendship and comfort and not someones greed.
In only a year she was the toast of the town,
Men would besiege her while the woman would frown,
She now lived in style and had jewels of her own,
And her beauty itself had not flourished and grown,
She was no longer a whore in the eyes of her peers,
She was no longer the girl who started in tears,
She now was the Queen of her own small domain,
Choosing the richest for her own selfish gain.
Each day saw gold soverigns enrichen her hoard,
Which she kept in a bag hidden under a board,
It also held trinkets given by men,
Who would seek out her pleasures again and again,
But life like the rose bud can grow its own thorns,
Just like the weeds tried to smother the corn,
So too in the life of young Bridie Muir,
There came an occurence with only one cure.
It happened so slowly she at first didn’t know,
For no sign was apparent, she had nothing to show,
Except for the swelling of her ample young breasts,
Which men heartily agreed were two of the best,
But then came the sickness, each morning it came,
She wondered at first if the food was to blame,
But the cook in the kitchen, with her eyes open wide,
Patted her stomach saying, “There’s a baby inside.”
“A baby” she whispered, as it came as a shock,
Its Father, a mystery, was one of her flock,
A Farmer, a Lord or a Prince of the Throne,
Or maybe the landlord that called her his own,
But no matter the Father the months passed on by,
Till a morning of labour brought a heart-warming cry,
And as she lay in her bed gently holding her son,
She vowed to protect him from all that she done.
Meanwhile the news of a fine baby boy,
Brought men bearing presents and faces of joy,
For each was the Father, of this they were sure,
Yet the baby resembled only sweet Bridie Muir,
The presents were many, silks and fine scents,
Even a house where she’d never pay rent,
And all she needed, she had only to ask,
For each man would redeem it as his own personal task.
She had men dig her garden and fill it with flowers,
They made her a sunhouse to protect her from showers,
She asked and recieved, in the name of her son,
All things that were possible which were joyously done,
And the babe, quickly growing, was learning to talk,
After rumbles and tumbles at last he could walk,
He needed for nothing, neither toys nor a game,
For Bridie spent gaily her earnings of shame.
She now had a Cook and a young serving Maid,
And the up keep of the house had still to be paid,
So she let it be known that her bed would be free,
For those who could pay a generous fee,
Back came the sires who had hung round her door,
Waiting and hoping for a little bit more,
For money means nothing when love rears its head,
Especially with Bridie in her four poster bed.
She then held great parties that no-one would miss,
For they said she gave freely for the man she would kiss,
But the men still brought presents as they paid for their fun,
And in this life full of laughter she forgot her own son,
Though she saw him each day with his hair falling wild,
In her mind her dear baby was only a child,
But the years had passed quickly, her child was a man,
The man she accosted with her elegant fan.
The logs in the fire had long since turned cold,
And on finishing her story she felt sad and old,
For the secret she had kept for so many years,
Was at last washed away in an ocean of tears,
She looked at her son through a mist o’er her eyes,
And thought of her life which she must now despise,
What now would he think of this old Bridie Muir,
Would he condem her as others as just being a whore?
Lipton said nothing for a very long while,
Then his lips slowly parted in the shape of a smile,
And now laughing he said, “So a bastard I be
But there’s no other bastard the image of me.”
So saying, he then helped her rise from the stool,
And jokingly chastised her for being a fool,
Saying, “Tonight my dear Mother, there’s one thing for sure,
You picked the one man who loves you, my sweet Bridie Muir.”
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