174
XXI.
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 Baby, 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;
I cannot work thee any woe.
