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 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!
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 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.
"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-rock's 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.
"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."
Ask not the boy, who, when the breeze of morn
First shakes the glitt'ring drops from ev'ry thorn,
Unfolds his flock, then under bank or bush
Sits linking cherry-stones, or platting rush,
How fair is freedom? He was always free.
To carve his rustic name upon a tree,
To snare the mole, or with ill-fashioned hook
To draw th' incautious minnow from the brook,
Are life's prime pleasures in his simple view,
His flock the chief concern he ever knew:
She shines but little in his heedless eyes;
The good we never miss, we rarely prize.
|