There lived a girl in the end row,
fairest in all the land,
and all the men from all around
came suitors for her hand.
The boss man’s son sent his own men
to bring her to his house
and swore that she would never leave
until she was his spouse.
“Take all I have away from me,
take honour, jewels and life;
take me out of all memory:
I’ll never be your wife.”
“You have one night, my pretty one:
if you and I aren’t wed
before another day is done,
you’ll see your mother dead.”
Then as she wept alone that night,
her double left her glass
and stole through halls to the son’s room
where no one saw her pass.
The son smiled as she slipped inside,
regal and unafraid,
but in a flash she seized his knife
and stabbed him with his blade.
She twisted it in his black heart
till no red blood was left;
she did not strike with her right hand,
she struck him with the left.
Then back she glided through the house
to the poor woman’s room
and took her by her good right hand
and led her smiling home.
The boss man wept over his son
and searched both high and low
but never found the murderer
whose left hand struck the blow.