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“ But what's the Thorn ? and what's the Pond ? “ And what's the Hill of moss to her ? * And what's the creeping breeze that comes « The little Pond to stir ?" I cannot tell ; but some will say She hanged her baby on the tree ; Some say, she drowned it in the pond, Which is a little step beyond ; But all and each agree, The little babe was buried there, Beneath that Hill of moss so fair.
I've heard, the moss is spotted red
infant's blood :
And fix on it a steady view,
And some had sworn an oath that she
Should be to public justice brought : And for the little infant's bones With spades they would have sought. But then the beauteous Hill of moss Before their eyes began to stir ; And for full fifty yards around, The grass it shook upon the ground; But all do still aver The little babe is buried there, Beneath that Hill of moss so fair,
that strive To drag it to the ground. And this I know, full many a time, When she was on the mountain high, By day, and in the silent night, When all the stars shone clear and bright, That I have heard her cry, “ Oh misery! oh misery ! « O woe is me! oh misery !"
WE ARE SEVEN.
A simple child, dear brother Jim,
I met a little cottage Girl:
She had a rustic, woodland air,
“ Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
“ And where are they, I pray you tell ?". She answered, “Seven are we ; “ And two of us at Conway dwell, “ And two are gone to sea.
“ Two of us in the church-yard lie,
“ You say that two at Conway dwell,
pray you tell,