The rain it pours,
And the hurricane roars,
But my bairn it sleeps on the fell.
I vow that the touching address of the daughter of Acrisius to her nursling, in the Greek Anthology, never sounded so sweetly to me in my school-boy days, as did the lullaby I had just heard. I’m sure the girl will make a good mamma. Perhaps she’s thinking of the time when that will happen.
Another—
My roundelay, it runs as nimble
As the nag o’er the ice without a stumble;
My roundelay can turn with a twirl,
As quick as the lads on snow-shoes whirl.
A strapping peasant lad, joining our tête-à-tête, I bantered him on the subject of sweethearts.