ly sister's child, who bears my name,
From France across the ocean came;
She with her mother cross'd the sea;
The babe and mother near me dwell:
My darling, she is not to me
What thou art! though I love her well:
Rest, little stranger, rest thee here!
Never was any child more dear!

-"I cannot help it-ill intent
I've none, my pretty innocent!
I weep-I know they do thee wrong,
These tears-and my poor idle tongue.
Oh, what a kiss was that! my cheek
How cold it is! but thou art good;
Thine eyes are on me they would speak,
I think, to help me if they could.
Blessings upon that quiet face,
My heart again is in its place!

"While thou art mine, my little love,
This cannot be a sorrowful grove;
Contentment, hope, and mother's glee,
I seem to find them all in thee.

Here's grass to play with, here are flowers;
I'll call thee by my darling's name;
Thou hast, I think, a look of ours,
Thy features seem to me the same;
His little sister thou shalt be:
And, when once more my home I see,
I'll tell him many tales of thee."

HER eyes are wild, her head is bare,
The sun has burnt her coal-black hair,
Her eyebrows have a rusty stain,
And she came far from o'er the main.
She has a baby on her arm,

Or else she were alone;

And underneath the haystack warm,

And on the greenwood stone,

She talk'd and sung the woods among,
And it was in the English tongue.

"Sweet babe! they say that I am mad,
But nay, my heart is far too glad;
And I am happy when I sing
Full many a sad and doleful thing:
Then, lovely baby, do not fear!
I pray thee have no fear of me,
But, safe as in a cradle here,
My lovely baby! thou shalt be:
To thee I know too much I owe;
I cannot work thee any woe.

"A fire was once within my brain;
And in my head a dull, dull pain;
And fiendish faces, one, two, three,
Hung at my breasts, and pull'd at me.
But then there came a sight of joy;
It came at once to do me good;
I waked, and saw my little boy,
My little boy of flesh and blood:
Oh joy for me that sight to see!
For he was here, and only he
"Suck, little babe, oh suck again!
It cools my blood; it cools my brain;
Thy lips I feel them, baby! they
Draw from my heart the pain away
Oh! press me with thy little hand
It loosens something at my chest ;
About that tight and deadly band
I feel thy little fingers press'd.
The breeze I see is in the tree;
It comes to cool my babe and me.
"Oh! love me, love me, little boy!
Thou art thy mother's only joy;
And do not dread the waves below,
When o'er the sea-rocks' edge we go ;
The high crag cannot work me harm,
Nor leaping torrents when they howl;
The babe I carry on my arm,

He saves for me my precious soul:
Then happy lie, for bless'd am I;
Without me my sweet babe would die.

"Then, do not fear, my boy! for thee Bold as a lion I will be;

And I will always be thy guide Through hollow snows and rivers wide. I'll build an Indian bower; I know The leaves that make the softest bed; And, if from me thou wilt not go, But still be true till I am dead, My pretty thing! then thou shalt sing As merry as the birds in spring. "Thy father cares not for my breast, 'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest: 'Tis all thine own!-and, if its hue Be changed, that was so fair to view, "Tis fair enough for thee, my dove! 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 mado;
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.

"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 girth 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,
O 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 abed 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 fetch'd
Her pony, that is mild and good,
Whether he be in joy or pain,
Feeding at will along the lane,
Or bringing fagots 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 befall,
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 thee, 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 the pony moves his legs,
In Johnny's left hand you may see
The green bough 's motionless and dead:
The moon that shines above his head
Is not more still and mute than he.

His heart it was so full of glee,
That till full fifty yards were gone,
He quite forgot his holly whip,
And all his skill in horsemanship;
Oh, happy, happy, happy John!

And Betty's standing at the door,
And Betty's face with joy o'erflows;
Proud of herself, and proud of him,
She sees him in his travelling trim;
How quietly her Johnny goes.

The silence of her Idiot Boy,

What hopes it sends to Betty's heart!
He's at the guide-post-he turns right,
She watches till he's out of sight,

And Betty will not then depart.

Burr, burr-now Johnny's lips they burr,
As loud as any mill, or near it;
Meek as a lamb the pony moves,
And Johnny makes the noise he loves,
And Betty listens glad to hear it.

Away she hies to Susan Gale:
And Johnny's in a merry tune;
The cwlets hoot, the owlets curr,
And Johnny's lips they burr, burr, burr, -
And on he goes beneath the moor.