, - ? , , ? IX - ; . : , , . , , : . X - , , ? - , , , . , , ! XI ; ; , , . , - , , , . XII , , , - , , . , , . , ! XIII , ! , . ! : , , , , ; . XIV - , ; , - : , , , , . . XV , , , : , , . . XVI : . , . , . XVII , , , . , , , - , , - , , . XVIII - , , : ", ! , !" , , , : ", , , !" XIX - , , , , ? - ; , , ; , . : . XX , - . - , , , : , . XXI - ; . , , . : . XXII , ; ; ; , : ", ! , ! , , , !" THE LAST OF THE FLOCK I In distant countries have I been, And yet I have not often seen A healthy man, a man full grown, Weep in the public roads, alone. But such a one, on English ground, And in the broad highway, I met; Along the broad highway he came, His cheeks with tears were wet: Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad; And in his arms a Lamb he had. II He saw me, and he turned aside, As if he wished himself to hide: And with his coat did then essay To wipe those briny tears away. I followed him, and said, "My friend, What ails you? wherefore weep you so?" -"Shame on me, Sir! this lusty Lamb, He makes my tears to flow. To-day I fetched him from the rock; He is the last of all my flock. III "When I was young, a single man, And after youthful follies ran, Though little given to care and thought, Yet, so it was, an ewe I bought; And other sheep from her I raised, As healthy sheep as you might see; And then I married, and was rich As I could wish to be; Of sheep I numbered a full score, And every year increased my store. IV "Year after year my stock it grew; And from this one, this single ewe, Full fifty comely sheep I raised, As fine a flock as ever grazed! Upon the Quantock hills they fed; They throve, and we at home did thrive: - This lusty Lamb of all my store Is all that is alive; And now I care not if we die, And perish all of poverty. V "Six Children, Sir! had I to feed: Hard labour in a time of need! My pride was tamed, and in our grief I of the Parish asked relief. They said, I was a wealthy man; My sheep upon the uplands fed, And it was fit that thence I took Whereof to buy us bread. 'Do this: how can we give to you,' They cried, 'what to the poor is due?' VI "I sold a sheep, as they had said, And bought my little children bread, And they were healthy with their food For me-it never did me good. A woeful time it was for me, To see the end of all my gains, The pretty flock which I had reared With all my care and pains, To see it melt like snow away - For me it was a woeful day. VII "Another still! and still another! A little lamb, and then its mother! It was a vein that never stopped- Like blood drops from my heart they dropped. 'Till thirty were not left alive They dwindled, dwindled, one by one And I may say, that many a time I wished they all were gone- Reckless of what might come at last Were but the bitter struggle past. VIII "To wicked deeds I was inclined, And wicked fancies crossed my mind; And every man I chanced to see, I thought he knew some ill of me: No peace, no comfort could I find, No ease, within doors or without; And, crazily and wearily I went my work about; And oft was moved to flee from home, And hide my head where wild beasts roam. IX "Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me As dear as my own children be; For daily with my growing store I loved my children more and more. Alas! it was an evil time; God cursed me in my sore distress; I prayed, yet every day I thought I loved my children less; And every week, and every day, My flock it seemed to melt away. X "They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see! From ten to five, from five to three, A lamb, a wether, and a ewe;- And then at last from three to two; And, of my fifty, yesterday I had but only one: And here it lies upon my arm, Alas! and I have none;- To-day I fetched it from the rock; It is the last of all my flock."   I , , , , , , : , . , , . II , , , , . - , - , - ? ? ? - , , , , - ... III ; , , - , , , , ; - . ; . IV , , , ! , ... - , - . V , , - . : " - , - . - , !" VI , , - , . , : - , , - , . VII , ! . - , , - , , , ! VIII , , , . , , , , ; , . IX , ; , - , , - ... , , , , , , ... , . X ! , , , , - ! - , ... , , , , , - ... THE MAD MOTHER I Her eyes are wild, her head is bare, The sun has burnt her coal-black hair; Her eyebrows 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 underneath the hay-stack warm, And on the greenwood stone, She talked and sung the woods among, And it was in the English tongue. II "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 shall be: To thee I know too much I owe; I cannot work thee any woe. III "A fire was once within my brain; And in my head a dull, dull pain; And fiendish faces, one, two, three, Hung at my breast, and pulled at me; But then there came a sight of joy; It came at once to do me good; I waked, and saw my little boy, My little boy of flesh and blood; Oh joy for me that sight to see! For he was here, and only he. IV "Suck, little babe, oh suck again! It cools my blood; it cools my 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 fingers prest. The breeze I see is in the tree: It comes to cool my babe and me. V "Oh! love me, love me, little boy! Thou art thy mother's only joy; And do not dread the waves below, When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go; The high crag cannot 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. VI "Then do not fear, my boy! for thee Bold as a lion will I be; And I will always be thy guide, Through hollow snows and rivers wide. I'll 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 shall sing As merry as the birds in spring. VII "Thy father cares not for my breast, Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest; Tis all thine own! - and, if its hue Be changed, that was so fair to view, 'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove! My beauty, little child, is flown, But thou wilt live with me in love, And what if my poor cheek be brown? Tis well for me, thou canst not see How pale and wan it else would be. VIII "Dread not their taunts, my little Life; I am thy father's wedded wife; And underneath the spreading tree We two will live in honesty. If his sweet boy he could forsake, With me he never would have stayed: From him no harm my babe can take; But he, poor man! is wretched made; And every day we two will pray For him that's gone and far away. IX "I'll teach my boy the sweetest things: I'll teach him how the owlet sings. My little babe! thy lips are still, And thou hast almost sucked thy fill. - 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. X "Oh! smile on me, my little lamb! For I thy own dear mother am: My love for thee has well been tried: I've sought thy father far and wide. I know the poisons of the shade; I know the earth-nuts fit for food: Then, pretty dear, be not afraid: We'll find thy father in the wood. Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away! And there, my babe, we'll live for aye."   I , - , , - , . , - . , , , : II ", , ! : . , . , , , ! , , , , . III , , . , , , , ! , , . IV , , - . , : . , , . V , , ! ! , . , - . , : . VI , ! , , , . , - . , , , - , , . VII , ! . , . , , . . , : , , , : , . VIII , ! . . , . : , , ! . IX . . , , , ? ! , ! ? ! - . X , , ! ! : , , . , , . , , ". THE IDIOT BOY Tis eight o'clock, - a clear March night, The moon is up, - the sky is blue, The owlet, in the moonlight air, Shouts from nobody knows where; He lengthens out his lonely shout, Halloo! halloo! a long halloo! - Why bustle thus about your door, What means this bustle, Betty Foy? Why are you in this mighty fret? And why on horseback have you set Him whom you love, your Idiot Boy? Scarcely a soul is out of bed; Good Betty, put him down again; His lips with joy they burr at you; But, Betty! what has he to do With stirrup, saddle, or with rein? But Betty's bent on her intent; For her good neighbour, Susan Gale, Old Susan, she who dwells alone, Is sick, and makes a piteous moan As if her very life would fail. There's not a house within a mile, No hand to help them in distress; Old Susan lies a-bed in pain, And sorely puzzled are the twain, For what she ails they cannot guess. And Betty's husband's at the wood, Where by the week he doth abide, A woodman in the distant vale; There's none to help poor Susan Gale; What must be done? what will betide? And Betty from the lane has fetched Her Pony, that is mild and good; Whether he be in joy or pain, Feeding at will along the lane, Or bringing faggots from the wood. And he is all in travelling trim, - And, by the moonlight, Betty Foy Has on the well-girt saddle set (The like was never heard of yet) Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy. And he must post without delay Across the bridge and through the dale, And by the church, and o'er the down, To bring a Doctor from the town, Or she will die, old Susan Gale. There is no need of boot or spur, There is no need of whip or wand; For Johnny has his holly-bough, And with a _hurly-burly_ now He shakes the green bough in his hand. And Betty o'er and o'er has told The Boy, who is her best delight, Both what to follow, what to shun, What do, and what to leave undone, How turn to left, and how to right. And Betty's most especial charge, Was, "Johnny! Johnny! mind that you Come home again, nor stop at all, - Come home again, whate'er befall, My Johnny, do, I pray you do." To this did Johnny answer make, Both with his head and with his hand, And proudly shook the bridle too; And then! his words were not a few, Which Betty well could understand. And now that Johnny is just going, Though Betty's in a mighty flurry, She gently pats the Pony's side, On which her Idiot Boy must ride, And seems no longer in a hurry. But when the Pony moved his legs, Oh! then for the poor Idiot Boy! For joy he cannot hold the bridle, For joy his head and heels are idle, He's idle all for very joy. And while the Pony moves his legs, In Johnny's left hand you may see The green bough motionless and dead: The Moon that shines above his head Is not more still and mute than he. His heart it was so full of glee, That till full fifty yards were gone, He quite forgot his holly whip, And all his skill in horsemanship: Oh! happy, happy, happy John. And while the Mother, at the door, Stands fixed, her face with joy o'erflows, Proud of herself, and proud of him, She sees him in his travelling trim, How quietly her Johnny goes. The silence of her Idiot Boy, What hopes it sends to Betty's heart! He's at the guide-post-he turns right; She watches till he's out of sight, And Betty will not then depart. Burr, burr - now Johnny's lips they burr, As loud as any mill, or near it; Meek as a lamb the Pony moves, And Johnny makes the noise he loves, And Betty listens, glad to hear it. Away she hies to Susan Gale: Her Messenger's in merry tune; The owlets hoot, the owlets curr, And Johnny's lips they burr, burr, burr, As on he goes beneath the moon. His steed and he right well agree; For of this Pony there's a rumour, That, should he lose his eyes and ears, And should he live a thousand years, He never will be out of humour. But then he is a horse that thinks! And when he thinks, his pace is slack; Now, though he knows poor Johnny well, Yet, for his life, he cannot tell What he has got upon his back. So through the moonlight lanes they go, And far into the moonlight dale, And by the church, and o'er the down, To bring a Doctor from the town, To comfort poor old Susan Gale. And Betty, now at Susan's side, Is in the middle of her story, What speedy help her Boy will bring, With many a most diverting thing, Of Johnny's wit, and Johnny's glory. And Betty, still at Susan's side, By this time is not quite so flurried: Demure with porringer and plate She sits, as if in Susan's fate Her life and soul were buried. But Betty, poor good woman! she, You plainly in her face may read it, Could lend out of that moment's store Five years of happiness or more To any that might need it. But yet I guess that now and then With Betty all was not so well; And to the road she turns her ears, And thence full many a sound she hears, Which she to Susan will not tell. Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans; "As sure as there's a moon in heaven," Cries Betty, "he'll be back again; They'll both be here-'tis almost ten- Both will be here before eleven." Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans; The clock gives warning for eleven; 'Tis on the stroke-"He must be near," Quoth Betty, "and will soon be here, As sure as there's a moon in heaven." The clock is on the stroke of twelve, And Johnny is not yet in sight: - The Moon's in heaven, as Betty sees, But Betty is not quite at ease; And Susan has a dreadful night. And Betty, half an hour ago, On Johnny vile reflections cast: "A little idle sauntering Thing!" With other names, an endless string; But now that time is gone and past. And Betty's drooping at the heart, That happy time all past and gone, "How can it be he is so late ? The Doctor, he has made him wait; Susan! they'll both be here anon." And Susan's growing worse and worse, And Betty's in a sad _quandary_; And then there's nobody to say If she must go, or she must stay! - She's in a sad _quandary_. The clock is on the stroke of one; But neither Doctor nor his Guide Appears along the moonlight road; There's neither horse nor man abroad, And Betty's still at Susan's side. And Susan now begins to fear Of sad mischances not a few, That Johnny may perhaps be drowned; Or lost, perhaps, and never found; Which they must both for ever rue. She prefaced half a hint of this With, "God forbid it should be true!" At the first word that Susan said Cried Betty, rising from the bed, "Susan, I'd gladly stay with you. "I must be gone, I must away: Consider, Johnny's but half-wise; Susan, we must take care of him, If he is hurt in life or limb" - "Oh God forbid!" poor Susan cries. "What can I do?" says Betty, going, "What can I do to ease your pain? Good Susan tell me, and I'll stay; I fear you're in a dreadful way, But I shall soon be back again." "Nay, Betty, go! good Betty, go! There's nothing that can ease my pain." Then off she hies; but with a prayer That God poor Susan's life would spare, Till she comes back again. So, through the moonlight lane she goes, And far into the moonlight dale; And how she ran, and how she walked, And all that to herself she talked, Would surely be a tedious tale. In high and low, above, below, In great and small, in round and square, In tree and tower was Johnny seen, In bus