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. The leaves that make the softest bed: 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; If his sweet Boy he could forsake, From him no harm my Babe can take, But he, poor Man! is wretched made; And every day we two will pray I'll teach my Boy the sweetest things; And thou hast almost sucked thy fill. Where art thou gone, my own dear Child?. What wicked looks are those I see? Oh! smile on me, my little lamb ! And there, my babe, we'll live for aye." XXIII. 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 ; -Why bustle thus about your door, 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 There's scarce a soul that's out of bed; Good Betty, put him down again; The world will say 'tis very idle, But Betty's bent on her intent; There's not a house within a mile, |