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 girt 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,

Oh! 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 a bed 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?