Clutched in thy tiny hand.”
(À moi, mon poupon!)
A rose she pinned at his side,
(À moi, mon poupon!)
And one to each foot she tied;
(À moi, mon poupon!)
His cot she lined with rue,
And she named him her Jésus.
(À moi, mon poupon!)
I lay amongst the branches that night, with the memory of the low, sweet voice and the strange picture in my brain. And, as I tossed, literally, on my timber couch, a weirder fancy would come to me of the elfish swineherd sleeping within her charmed circle of hogs—fearless and secure—mingling her soft expression of rest with their truculent breathings.