"To God and you I do commend
My children night and day:
A little while be sure we have
Within this world to stay.

"You must be father, mother both, "And uncle, all in one; God knows what will become of them When I am dead and gone."

With that bespoke the mother dear, "O brother kind!" quoth she, "You are the man must bring my babes

To wealth or misery.

"If you do keep them carefully,
Then God will you reward:
If otherwise you seem to deal,
God will your deeds regard."

With lips as cold as any stone,

She kissed her children small; "God bless you both, my children dear!"

With that the tears did fall.

These speeches then the brother spoke

To the sick couple there; "The keeping of your children dear, Sweet sister, never fear.

"God never prosper me nor mine,

Nor aught else that I have,
If I do wrong your children dear,
When you're laid in the grave."

The parents being dead and gone,
The children home he takes,
And brings them home unto his house,
And 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 bargained with two ruffians rude,
Who were of furious mood,
That they should take these children
young,

And slay them in a wood;

And told his wife and all he had,
He did those children send,
To be brought up in fair London,
With one that was his friend.

Away then went these pretty babes, Rejoicing at the tide,

And smiling with a merry mind, They on cock-horse should ride.

They prate and prattle pleasantly
As they rode on the way,
To them that should their butchers be,
And work their lives' decay.

So that the pretty speech they had
Made murderers' hearts relent;
And they that took the deed to do,
Full sore they did 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 would not agree thereto,
So here they fell in 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,

Where babes do quake for fear.

He took the children by the hand,
When tears stood in their eye,
And bid them come, and go with
him,

And see they did not cry.

And two long miles he led them thus, While they for bread complain; "Stay here," quoth he: "I'll bring you bread

When I do come again."

These pretty babes, with hand in hand,

Went wandering up and down;
But never more they saw the man
Approaching from the town.

Their pretty lips with blackberries
Were all besmeared and dyed;
But, when they saw the darksome
night,

They sat them down and cried.

Thus wandered these two little babes
Till death did end their grief:
In one another's arms they died,
As babes wanting relief.

She weeps not for the wedding-day
Which was to be to-morrow:
Her hope was a farther-looking hope,
And hers is a mother's sorrow.

He was a tree that stood alone,
And proudly did its branches wave:
And the root of this delightful tree
Was in her husband's grave!

Long, long in darkness did she sit, And her first words were, "Let there be

In Bolton, on the field of Wharf,
A stately Priory!"

The stately Priory was reared;
And Wharf, as he moved along,
To matins joined a mournful voice,
Nor failed at evensong.

And the lady prayed in heaviness
That looked not for relief!
But slowly did her succor come,
And a patience to her grief.

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, "For the dews will soone be falling; Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow;

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;

Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe
Lightfoot,

Quit the stalks of parsley hollow,
Hollow, hollow;
Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow,
From the clovers lift your head;
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe
Lightfoot,

Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow,
Jetty, to the milking shed."

If it be long, aye, long ago,
When I beginne to think howe long,
Againe I hear the Lindis flow,

Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and

I looked without, and lo! my sonne Came riding downe with might and main.

He raised a shout as he drew on,

Till all the welkin rang again, "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!'

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.)

"The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe,

The rising tide comes on apace, And boats adrift in yonder towne

Go sailing uppe the market-place." He shook as one that looks on death: "God save you, mother!" straight he saith;

"Where is my wife, Elizabeth?"

"Good sonne, where Lindis winds

I shall never see her more
Where the reeds and rushes quiver,
Shiver, quiver:

Stand beside the sobbing river,
Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling,
To the sandy lonesome shore;
I shall never hear her calling,
"Leave your meadow grasses mel-
low,

Mellow, mellow;
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe
Lightfoot;

Quit your pipes of parsley hollow.
Hollow, hollow;
Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and fol-
low;

Lightfoot, Whitefoot,
From your clovers lift the head;
Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow,
Jetty, to the milking shed."

JEAN INGELOW.