Away then went those pretty babes, Rejoicing with a merry mind, They should on cock-horse ride. To those that should their butchers be, So that the pretty speech they had, Yet one of them, more hard of heart, Had paid him very large. The other won't agree thereto, The babes did quake for fear! He took the children by the hand, And bade them straightway follow him, And look they did not cry; And two long miles he led them on, While they for food complain : 'Stay here,' quoth he, 'I'll bring you bread, When I come back again.' These pretty babes, with hand in hand, Thus wandered these poor innocents Did cover them with leaves. And now the heavy wrath of God Upon their uncle fell; Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house, His barns were fired, his goods consumed, His cattle died within the field, And in the voyage to Portugal And to conclude, himself was brought He pawn'd and mortgaged all his land And now at length this wicked act Did by this means come out : The fellow that did take in hand You that executors be made, Of children that be fatherless, And infants mild and meek; Take you example by this thing, And yield to each his right, Lest God with such like misery Your wicked minds requite. Old Ballad LVII ROBIN REDBREAST OOD-BYE, good-bye to Summer! The garden smiling faintly, Cool breezes in the sun; Our thrushes now are silent, Our swallows flown away, Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! Robin sings so sweetly In the falling of the year. Bright yellow, red, and orange, But soon they'll turn to ghosts; It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, 'T will soon be Winter now. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! And what will this poor Robin do? For pinching days are near. The fireside for the cricket, The wheat-stack for the mouse, When trembling night-winds whistle And moan all round the house. The frosty ways like iron, The branches plumed with snow, Alas! in winter dead and dark, Where can poor Robin go? Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! And a crumb of bread for Robin, His little heart to cheer. W. Allingham LVIII THE OWL IN the hollow tree in the gray old tower, IN The spectral owl doth dwell; Dull, hated, despised in the sunshine hour, Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him; But at night, when the woods grow still and dim, O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl, And the owl hath a bride who is fond and bold, And with eyes like the shine of the moonshine cold Not a feather she moves, not carol she sings, As she waits in her tree so still; But when her heart heareth his flapping wings, O, when the moon shines, and the dogs do howl, Mourn not for the owl nor his gloomy plight! If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight, Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange dark fate |