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IT was a little, fearful maid.

Whose mother left her all alone;

Her door with iron bolt she stayed,

And 'gainst it rolled a lucky stone—

For many a night she 'd waked with fright

when witches by the house had flown.


To piping lute in still midnight,

Who comes a-singing at the door,—

That showeth seams of golden light,—

"Ah, open, darling, I implore"?

She could not help knowing 't was Love,

although they 'd never met before.


She swiftly shot the iron bar,

And rolled the lucky stone away,

And careful set the door ajar —

"Now enter in. Sir Love, I pray;

My mother knows it not, but I have watched

for you this many a day."


With fan and roar of gloomy wings

They gave the door a windy shove;

They perched on chairs and brooms and things;

Like bats they beat around above —

Poor little maid, she 'd let the witches in with

Love.