Oh! smile on me, my little lamb! Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away! And there, my babe; we'll live for aye. THE IDIOT BOY. لله '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, Beneath the moon that shines so bright, Till she is tired, let Betty Foy But wherefore set upon a saddle There's scarce a soul that's out of bed; But, Betty! what has he to do With stirrup, saddle, or with rein? The world will say 'tis very idle, Bethink of the time of night; you There's not a mother, no not one, But when she hears what you have done, Oh! Betty she'll be in a fright. |