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My beauty, little child, is flown;

       But thou wilt live with me in love,

       And what if my poor cheek be brown?

       ‘Tis well for me; thou canst not see

       How pale and wan it else would be.

      Dread not their taunts, my little life!

       I am thy father’s wedded wife;

       And underneath the spreading tree

       We two will live in honesty.

       If his sweet boy he could forsake,

       With me he never would have stay’d:

       From him no harm my babe can take,

       But he, poor man! is wretched made,

       And every day we two will pray

       For him that’s gone and far away.

      I’ll teach my boy the sweetest things;

       I’ll teach him how the owlet sings.

       My little babe! thy lips are still,

       And thou hast almost suck’d thy fill.

       — Where art thou gone my own dear child?

       What wicked looks are those I see?

       Alas! alas! that look so wild,

       It never, never came from me:

       If thou art mad, my pretty lad,

       Then I must be for ever sad.

      Oh! smile on me, my little lamb!

       For I thy own dear mother am.

       My love for thee has well been tried:

       I’ve sought thy father far and wide.

       I know the poisons of the shade,

       I know the earth-nuts fit for food;

       Then, pretty dear, be not afraid;

       We’ll find thy father in the wood.

       Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away!

       And there, my babe; we’ll live for aye.

THE IDIOT BOY

       Table of Contents

      Tis eight o’clock, — a clear March night,

       The moon is up — the sky is blue,

       The owlet in the moonlight air,

       He shouts from nobody knows where;

       He lengthens out his lonely shout,

       Halloo! halloo! a long halloo!

      — Why bustle thus about your door,

       What means this bustle, Betty Foy?

       Why are you in this mighty fret?

       And why on horseback have you set

       Him whom you love, your idiot boy?

      Beneath the moon that shines so bright,

       Till she is tired, let Betty Foy

       With girt and stirrup fiddle-faddle;

       But wherefore set upon a saddle

       Him whom she loves, her idiot boy?

      There’s scarce a soul that’s out of bed;

       Good Betty! put him down again;

       His lips with joy they burr at you,

       But, Betty! what has he to do

       With stirrup, saddle, or with rein?

      The world will say ‘tis very idle,

       Bethink you of the time of night;

       There’s not a mother, no not one,

       But when she hears what you have done,

       Oh! Betty she’ll be in a fright.

      But Betty’s bent on her intent,

       For her good neighbour, Susan Gale,

       Old Susan, she who dwells alone,

       Is sick, and makes a piteous moan,

       As if her very life would fail.

      There’s not a house within a mile.

       No hand to help them in distress:

       Old Susan lies a bed in pain,

       And sorely puzzled are the twain,

       For what she ails they cannot guess.

      And Betty’s husband’s at the wood,

       Where by the week he doth abide,

       A woodman in the distant vale;

       There’s none to help poor Susan Gale,

       What must be done? what will betide?

      And Betty from the lane has fetched

       Her pony, that is mild and good,

       Whether he be in joy or pain,

       Feeding at will along the lane,

       Or bringing faggots from the wood.

      And he is all in travelling trim,

       And by the moonlight, Betty Foy

       Has up upon the saddle set,

       The like was never heard of yet,

       Him whom she loves, her idiot boy.

      And he must post without delay

       Across the bridge that’s in the dale,

       And by the church, and o’er the down,

       To bring a doctor from the town,

       Or she will die, old Susan Gale.

      There is no need of boot or spur,

       There is no need of whip or wand,

       For Johnny has his holly-bough,

       And with a hurly-burly now

       He shakes the green bough in his hand.

      And Betty o’er and o’er has told

       The boy who is her best delight,

       Both what to follow, what to shun,

       What do, and what to leave undone,

       How turn to left, and how to right.

      And Betty’s most especial charge,

       Was, “Johnny! Johnny! mind that you

       “Come home again, nor stop at all,

       “Come home again, whate’er befal,

       “My Johnny do, I pray you do.”

      To this did Johnny answer make,

       Both with his head, and with his hand,

       And proudly shook the bridle too,

       And then! his words were not a few,

       Which Betty well could understand.

      And now that Johnny is just going,

       Though Betty’s in a mighty flurry,

       She gently pats the pony’s side,

       On which her idiot boy must ride,

       And seems no longer in a hurry.

      But when the pony moved his legs,

       Oh! then for the poor idiot boy!

       For joy he cannot hold the bridle,

       For joy his head and heels are idle,

       He’s idle all for very joy.

      And while

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