I am the same who at thy side
Sate yesterday, and made a nest
For thee, sweet baby!-thou hast tried,
Thou know'st, the pillow of my breast;
Good, good art thou ;-alas! to me
Far more than I can be to thee.
"Here, little darling, dost thou lie ; An infant thou, a mother I!
Mine wilt thou be-thou hast no fears; Mine art thou, spite of these my tears. Alas! before I left the spot,
My baby and its dwelling-place,
The nurse said to me, Tears should not Be shed upon an infant's face,
It was unlucky'-no, no, no;
No truth is in them who say so !
"My own dear little one will sigh,
Sweet babe! and they will let him die.
'He pines,' they'll say; it is his doom,
And you may see his hour is come.'
Oh! had he but thy cheerful smiles,
Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay,
Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles,
And count'nance like a summer's day,
They would have hopes of him-and then
I should behold his face again!
"Tis gone-forgotten-let me do
My best-there was a smile or two;
I can remember them: I see
The smiles, worth all the world to me.
Dear baby! I must lay thee down;.
Thou troublest me with strange alarms:
Smiles hast thou, sweet ones of thy own;
I cannot keep thee in my arms,
For they confound me: as it is-
I have forgot those smiles of his.
"Oh! how I love thee !-we will stay
Together here this one half-day.
My sister's child, who bears my name,
From France across the ocean came;
She with her mother crossed 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 green wood stone,
She talked 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!
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 pulled 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 pressed.
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 blessed 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 stayed :
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 sucked 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."
"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 fetched
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 spúr,
There is no need of whip or wand;
For Johnie 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,
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