The parents being dead and gone, And brings them straight unto his house, He bargain'd with two ruffians strong That they should take these children young And slay them in a wood. He told his wife an artful tale: He would the children send Away then went those pretty babes, They should on cock-horse ride. To those that should their butchers be, So that the pretty speech they had, Yet one of them, more hard of heart, Had paid him very large. The other won't agree thereto, So here they fall to strife; And he that was of mildest mood, He took the children by the hand, And two long miles he led them on, While they for food complain: Stay here,' quoth he, 'I'll bring you bread, When I come back again.' These pretty babes, with hand in hand, Went wandering up and down; And when they saw the darksome night, Thus wandered these poor innocents No burial this pretty pair Till Robin Redbreast piously Did cover them with leaves. And now the heavy wrath of God Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house, His barns were fired, his goods consumed, His cattle died within the field, And in the voyage to Portugal And to conclude, himself was brought He pawn'd and mortgaged all his land The fellow that did take in hand You that executors be made, Of children that be fatherless, Your wicked minds requite. Old Ballad LVII ROBIN REDBREAST Good-bye, good-bye to Summer! Robin sings so sweetly In the falling of the year. Bright yellow, red, and orange, The leaves come down in hosts; The trees are Indian princes, But soon they'll turn to ghosts; The leathery pears and apples Hang russet on the bough; Its Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, 'Twill soon be Winter now. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! And what will this poor Robin do? For pinching days are near. The fire-side for the cricket, The wheatstack for the mouse, When trembling night-winds whistle The branches plumed with snow,— O Robin dear! And a crumb of bread for Robin, His little heart to cheer. W. Allingham LVIII THE OWL In the hollow tree in the grey old tower, The spectral owl doth dwell; Dull, hated, despised in the sunshine hour, Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him; But at night, when the woods grow still and dim, O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl, And the owl hath a bride who is fond and bold, And loveth the wood's deep gloom; And with eyes like the shine of the moonshine cold She awaiteth her ghastly groom! Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings, As she waits in her tree so still; ut when her heart heareth his flapping wings, She hoots out her welcome shrill! |