Page:Lyrical ballads, Volume 1, Wordsworth, 1800.djvu/160

108 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;

Good Betty put him down again;

His lips with joy they burr at you,

But, Betty! what has he to do

With stirrup, saddle, or with rein?

The world will say 'tis very idle,

Bethink you of the time of night;

There's not a mother, no not one,

But when she hears what you have done,

Oh! Betty she'll be in a fright.