XX. "But what's the thorn? and what's the pond? "And what's the hill of moss to her? "And what's the creeping breeze that comes "The little pond to stir ?" I cannot tell; but some will say But all and each agree, The little babe was buried there, Beneath that hill of moss so fair. XXI. I've heard the scarlet moss is red With drops of that poor infant's blood; But kill a new-born infant thus ! I do not think she could. Some say, if to the pond you go, And fix on it a steady view, A baby and a baby's face, And that it looks at you; Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain The baby looks at you again. XXII. And some had sworn an oath that she Should be to public justice brought; And for the little infant's bones With spades they would have sought. Before their eyes began to stir ; The grass it shook upon the ground; But all do still aver The little babe is buried there, Beneath that hill of moss so fair. XXIII. I cannot tell how this may be, But plain it is, the thorn is bound And this I know, full many a time, When she was on the mountain high, By day, and in the silent night, When all the stars shone clear and bright, That I have heard her cry, "Oh misery! oh misery! "O woe is me! oh misery !" THE LAST OF THE FLOCK. In distant countries I have been, He saw me, and he turned aside, Then with his coat he made essay I follow'd him, and said, "My friend He makes my tears to flow. To-day I fetched him from the rock; He is the last of all my flock. When I was young, a single man, Though little given to care and thought, Yet, so it was, a ewe I bought; And other sheep from her I raised, And then I married, and was rich Of sheep I number'd a full score, And every year encreas'd my store. |