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XX. “ But what's the thorn ? and what's the pond ? “ And what's the hill of moss to her? “ And what's the creeping breeze that comes “ The little pond to stir ?". I cannot tell ; but some will say She hanged her baby on the tree, Some say she drowned it in the pond, Which is a little step beyond, But all and each agree, The little babe was buried there, Beneath that hill of moss so fair.
And fix on it a steady view,
XXII. And some had sworn an oath that she Should be to public justice brought; And for the little infant's bones With spades they would have sought. But then the beauteous hill of moss Before their eyes began to stir ; And for full fifty yards around, The grass it shook upon the ground; But all do still aver The little babe is buried there, Beneath that hill of moss so fair.
XXIII. I cannot tell how this may be, But plain it is, the thorn is bound With heavy tufts of moss, that strive To drag it to the ground. And this I know, full many a time, When she was on the mountain high, By day, and in the silent night, When all the stars shone clear and bright, That I have heard her cry, "Oh misery! oh misery! "O woe is me! oh misery !"
LAST OF THE FLOCK.
In distant countries I have been,
He saw me, and he turned aside,
"Shame on me, Sir! this lusty lamb,
When I was young, a single man,