Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/189



Do you hear the church-bells ringing,
 * Ringing from the distant mart?

With their metal tongues they’re singing,
 * Give the Lord alone thy heart!”

Petronella, take thy mass book,
 * It is time that we should start.”

Oh, no, granny, I am going
 * Where the strawberries are ripe.

Midst the green leaves they are glowing
 * Like a crimson velvet stripe;

In the forest there are flowers,
 * Violets, and gipsies pipe.”

Oh, my child, are you lightheaded?
 * Why to-day is St. John morn,

Think of him who was beheaded
 * In his prison cell forlorn.

Be not like that wanton maiden—
 * Better she was never born!”

Oh, dear granny, she was skillful,
 * And could dance with wondrous grace;

But St. John was very willful,
 * And he did not know his place.

One should leave kings all their pleasures,
 * And not blame them to their face.”