THE YOUTH BEWITCHED
My fair-haired boy is sore bewitched,
He goes all full of grieving;
The web of gloom upon his brow
Is sure of fairy weaving.
His cheery laugh I never hear,
His voice is rough and chiding;
Upon his path some evil thing
Does watch him from its hiding.
Ahone! Ahone! I bid him tell
If he has trod unknowing
Upon the fairy sleeping grass
Or cut the thorn a-growing.
He only turns his head away.
His words are bitter hearing;
But, ah! he cannot silence so
A mother's heart from fearing.
Last night I made a waxen shape
To bring the witch before me,
So she could take the sullen lad.
And my bright child restore me.
Nine pins I thrust within its side
To pierce her heart to dying,
And laid it on the glowing turf.
So listened for her crying.
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