Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/95



The little child stood on the bench,
 * And cried as loud as child can cry.

Will you be quiet, naughty one—
 * That is the way that gypsies cry.

Twelve o’clock will soon be striking,
 * And see the dinner is not done;

What will father say, you spoilt one,
 * When my work lies there all undone.

Hush! here are your playthings—wagon,
 * Horses, soldiers, whatever you will.”

Scarcely had she finished speaking,
 * All was thrown away with a will.

And the child began its howling,
 * Shrieking out like a thing possessed;

Hush! hush!” cried the tired mother,
 * So cry souls that die unconfessed.

Come witch—come and take her naughty—
 * Hush! hush! or I will call the witch.

Come witch, come and take her naughty—
 * Oh, good God! can that be the witch?”

Little humpback, horrible form,
 * Half revealed by the ample cloak,

In the room on crutches hobbling,
 * Came the witch; her voice was a croak.

Give me the child.” “Oh Holy Christ,
 * Forgive my sins,” the mother cried.

Ah, never from the room the witch
 * Will go, till one of us has died.”