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I calmed her fears, and she was calm, And told her love with virgin Pride. And so I won my Genevieve,

My bright and beauteous Bride!

The MAD MOTHER.

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 underneath the hay-stack warm,
And on the green-wood stone,
She talked and sung the woods among;
And it was in the English tongue.

“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 Babe, 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;
cannot work thee any woe.

brain;

A fire was once within

my And in my head a dull, dull pain ; And fiendish faces one, two, three, Hung at my breasts, 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.

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.

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.
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.
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 shalt sing
As merry as the birds in spring.

breast,

Thy Father cares not for my '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.

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