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, He shouts from nobody knows where ; Halloo! halloo! a long halloo! -Why bustle thus about your door, What means this bustle, Betty Foy? Beneath the moon that shines so bright, Till she is tired, let Betty Foy But wherefore set upon a saddle There's scarce a soul that's out of bed; But, Betty! what has he to do With stirrup, saddle, or with rein? The world will say 'tis very idle, Bethink of the time of night; you There's not a mother, no not one, But when she hears what you have done, Oh! Betty she'll be in a fright. But Betty's bent on her intent, There's not a house within a mile, And Betty's husband's at the wood, 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, The like was never heard of yet, Him whom she loves, her idiot boy. And he must post without delay Or she will die, old Susan Gale. |