Yule’s the children’s festival,

He hath got him leave to rise,

Haply now he stands, and cries,

Stretches little arms in vain

To his mother’s darken’d pane.

Was not that a baby’s voice?

Alf, I’ve neither will nor choice!

All is barr’d and bolted here.

’Tis thy father’s bidding, dear!

Alf, I may not open now!