A fox carried her off, and now I have none.
The fox has carried her off from the sill of my door,
And more than that, I think, he has done me disgrace.
But I perceive Jean le Ri and also Herod,
And I ask them, have you not seen my pullet.
And I pass my head out of the front room window.
I see my pullet, who on the village green is dancing,
And the fox by her side with a Flanders basket;
With pears and with apples he is treating my pullet.
Next to cradle songs, the creations of motherly affection, come the songs of youthful passion, when the instinct of love wakes in the hearts of the young man and the maid; and they sing, also, as naturally and simply as birds do in pairing time. There is often a touching inconsequence in these simple strains, a transcript of nature as it speaks to the heart, and finds almost inarticulate utterance in emotions of joy and sorrow, which is like the warbling of a bird, often ending its trill of gladness with a plaintive note. And the verses entitled The Song of the Nightingale, with its inconsequent but natural imageries at the close, which has an effect beyond the reach of art, has this penetrating and realistic effect:—