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The parents being dead and gone,
The children home he takes,

And brings them straight unto his house,
Where much of them he makes.
He had not kept these pretty babes
A twelvemonth and a day,
But, for their wealth, he did devise
To make them both away.

He bargain'd with two ruffians strong
Which were of furious mood,

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
To be brought up in fair London,
With one that was his friend.

Away then went those pretty babes,
Rejoicing at that tide,
Rejoicing with a merry mind,

They should on cock-horse ride.
They prate and prattle pleasantly,
As they rode on the way,

To those that should their butchers be,
And work their lives' decay.

So that the pretty speech they had,
Made murder's heart relent:
And they that undertook the deed,
Full sore did now repent.

Yet one of them, more hard of heart,
Did vow to do his charge,
Because the wretch that hired him,

Had paid him very large.

The other won't agree thereto,

So here they fall to strife;
With one another they did fight
About the children's life:

And he that was of mildest mood,
Did slay the other there,
Within an unfrequented wood:
The babes did quake for fear!

He took the children by the hand,
Tears standing in their eye,
And bade them straightway follow him,
And look they did not cry;

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;
But never more could see the man
Approaching from the town:
Their pretty lips with blackberries
Were all besmear'd and dyed,

And when they saw the darksome night,
They sat them down and cried.

Thus wandered these poor innocents
Till death did end their grief,
In one another's arms they died,
As wanting due relief:

No burial this pretty pair
Of any man receives,

Till Robin Redbreast piously

Did cover them with leaves.

And now the heavy wrath of God
Upon their uncle fell;

Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house,
His conscience felt an hell:

His barns were fired, his goods consumed,
His lands were barren made,

His cattle died within the field,
And nothing with him stayed.

And in the voyage to Portugal
Two of his sons did die;

And to conclude, himself was brought
To want and misery.

He pawn'd and mortgaged all his land
Ere seven years came about,
And now at length this wicked act
Did by this means come out :

The fellow that did take in hand
These children for to kill,
Was for a robbery judged to die,
Such was God's blessed will.
Who did confess the very truth,
As here hath been display'd:
Their uncle having died in gaol,
Where he for debt was laid.

You that executors be made,
And overseers eke

Of children that be fatherless,
And infants mild and meek;
Take you example by this thing,
And yield to each his right,
Lest God with such like misery

Your wicked minds requite.

Old Ballad

LVII

ROBIN REDBREAST

Good-bye, good-bye to Summer!
For Summer's nearly done;
The garden smiling faintly,
Cool breezes in the sun;
Our thrushes now are silent,
Our swallows flown away,-
But Robin's here in coat of brown,
And scarlet breast-knot gay.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!

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
And moan all round the house.
The frosty ways like iron,

The branches plumed with snow,—
Alas! in winter dead and dark,
Where can poor Robin go?
Robin, Robin Redbreast,

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,
But at dusk, he's abroad and well :

Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him;
All mock him outright by day ;

But at night, when the woods grow still and dim,
The boldest will shrink away;

O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl,
Then, then is the reign of the horned owl!

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!

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