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, Till she is tired, let Betty Foy With girt and stirrup fiddle-faddle ; But wherefore set upon a saddle Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy? There's scarce a soul that's out of bed; But, Betty! what has he to do The world will say 'tis very idle, you There's not a mother, no not one, have done, But when she hears what you Oh! Betty she'll be in a fright. But Betty's bent on her intent, For her good neighbour, Susan Gale, 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, Feeding at will along the lane, Or bringing faggots from the wood. And he is all in travelling trim, 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. |