« AnkstesnisTęsti »
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,
-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; 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,
There's not a mother, no not one,
O Betty, she'll be in a fright.
But Betty's bent on her intent;
There's not a house within a mile,
And sorely puzzled are the twain,
And Betty's Husband's at the wood,
And Betty from the lane has fetched
Her Pony, that is mild and good,
Whether he be in joy or pain,
Feeding at will along the lane,
Or bringing faggots from the wood.
And he is all in travelling trim,
The like was never heard of yet,
Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy.
And he must post without delay
Or she will die, old Susan Gale.
There is no need of boot or spur,
He shakes the green bough in his hand.
And Betty o'er and o'er has told
The Boy who is her best delight
Both what follow, what to shun,
What do, and what to leave undone,
How turn to left, and how to right.
And Betty's most especial charge,
Come home again, nor stop at all,
Come home again, whate'er befal,
My Johnny, do, I pray you do."