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 ; He lengthens out his lonely shout, Halloo! halloo! a long halloo ! -Why bustle thus about your door, Beneath the Moon that shines so bright, But wherefore set upon a saddle There's scarce a soul that's out of bed; The world will say 'tis very idle, There's not a mother, no not one, Oh! Betty she'll be in a fright. But Betty's bent on her intent, Is sick, and makes a piteous moan, 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, And by the moonlight, Betty Foy 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. |