Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/96

 She nears the table where they stand,
 * She creeps along as shadows creep.

The wretched mother hardly breathes— She clasps her child, that does not weep.

Alas! alas! that fatal call;
 * Poor child, there is no help for thee.

The witch comes creeping, creeping on,
 * She stretches out her hand for thee.

She stretches out her hand to take—
 * The mother cannot keep her hold.

I pray ye by Christ’s wounds,” she calls,
 * But still she cannot keep her hold.

And senseless to the ground she falls,
 * Just as the clock begins to strike.

The father from his work comes home,
 * The look of things he does not like.

They brought the mother to herself—
 * But oh, the child upon her breast,

The little child she loved so well,
 * Had passed away to endless rest.