THE MAD MOTHER.

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    <strong>THE MAD MOTHER.</strong>

    Her eyes are wild, her head is bare,

    The sun has burnt her coal-black hair,

    Her eye-brows have a rusty stain,

    And she came far from over the main.

    She has a baby on her arm,

    Or else she were alone;

    And underh the hay-stack warm,

    And on the green-wood stone,

    She talked and sung the woods among;

    And it was in the English tongue.

    &quot;Sweet babe! they say that I am mad,

    But nay, my heart is far too glad;

    And I am happy when I sing

    Full many a sad and doleful thing:

    Then, lovely baby, do not fear!

    I pray thee have no fear of me,

    But, safe as in a cradle, here

    My lovely baby! thou shalt be,

    To thee I know too much I owe;

    I ot work thee any woe.

    A ?re was ohin my brain;

    And in <s></s>my head a dull, dull pain;

    And ?endish faces owo, three,

    Hung at my breasts, and pulled at me.

    But then there came a sight of joy;

    It came at oo do me good;

    I waked, and saw my little boy,

    My little boy of ?esh and blood;

    Oh joy for me that sight to see!

    For he was here, and only he.

    Suck, little babe, oh suck again!

    It y blood;<tt></tt> it y brain;

    Thy lips I feel them, baby! they

    Draw from my heart the pain away.

    Oh! press me with thy little hand;

    It loosens something at my chest;

    About that tight and deadly band

    I feel thy little ?ngers pressd.

    The breeze I see is iree;

    It es to y babe and me.

    Oh! love me, love me, little boy!

    Thou art thy mothers only joy;

    And do not dread the waves below,

    Whehe sea-rocks edge we go;

    The high crag ot work me harm,

    Nor leaping torrents when they howl;

    The babe I carry on my arm,

    He saves for me my precious soul;

    Then happy lie, for blest am I;

    Without me my sweet babe would die.

    Then do not fear, my boy! for thee

    Bold as a lion I will be;

    And I will always be thy guide,

    Through hollow snows and rivers wide.

    Ill build an Indian bower; I know

    The leaves that make the softest bed:

    And if from me thou wilt not go,

    But still be true till I am dead,

    My pretty thing! then thou shalt sing,

    As merry as the birds in spring.

    Thy father cares not for my breast,

    Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest:

    Tis all thine own! and if its hue

    Be ged, that was so fair to view,

    Tis fair enough for thee, my dove!

    My beauty, little child, is ?own;

    But thou wilt live with me in love,

    And what if my poor cheek be brown?

    Tis well for me; thou st not<dfn></dfn> see

    How pale and wan it else would be.

    Dread not their taunts, my little life!

    I am thy fathers wedded wife;

    And underh the spreading tree

    ill live in hoy.

    If his sweet boy he could forsake,

    With me he never would have stayd:

    From him no harm my babe  take,

    But he, poor man! is wretched made,

    And every day ill pray

    For him thats gone and far away.

    Ill teach my boy the sweetest things;

    Ill teach him how the owlet sings.

    My little babe! thy lips are still,

    And thou hast almost suckd thy ?ll.

    --Where art thou gone my own dear child?

    What wicked looks are those I see?

    Alas! alas! that look so wild,

    It never, never came from me:

    If thou art mad, my pretty lad,

    Then I must be for ever sad.

    Oh! smile on me, my little lamb!

    For I thy own dear mother am.

    My love for thee has well been tried:

    Ive sought thy father far and wide.

    I know the poisons of the shade,

    I know the earth-nuts ?t for food;

    Then, pretty dear, be not afraid;

    Well ?nd thy father in the wood.

    Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away!

    And there, my babe; w<dfn>99ｌｉｂ.</dfn>ell live for aye.

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