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 With that the rogue fan to the wall,

He having had his will,

And brought one child under his arm

His dearest blood to spill.

The child seeing his father there,

To him for help did call,

O Father help my Mother dear,

We shall be killed all.

Then fell the Lord upon his knees,

And did the Moor intreat,

To save the life of his poor child,

Whose fear was then so great.

But the sad wretch the little child,

By both the heels did take,

And dash'd his head against the wall,

While parents heart did quake.

But being dead, he quickly ran,

The other child to fetch,

And pluck't it from the Mother's breast,

Like a most cruel wretch.

Within one hand a knife he brought,

The child into the other,

And holding it over the wall,

Said, Thus shall die the Mother.

With that he cut the throat of it,

Then on the Father calls,

To see how he the head had cut,

That down the brains did fall.