A Salem Mother by Theodosia Pickrering Garrison

I / They whisper at my very gate, / These clacking gossips every one, / "We saw them in the wood of late, / Her and the widow's son; / The horses at the forge may wait, / The wool may go unspun."

I spread the food he loves the best, / I light the lamp when day is done, / Yet still he stays another's guest -- / Oh, my one son, my son. / I would it burned in mine own breast / The spell he may not shun.