Now Master Twyford kiss’d his child;
And straight the cunning urchin smil’d:
“Hush father! hush! ’tis break of day—
“And Father Peter’s come to pray!
“You must not speak,” the infant cries—
“For underneath the bed he lies.”
Now Mistress Twyford shriek’d, and fainted,
And the sly neighbour found, too late,
The Farmer, than his wife less sainted,
For with his cudgel he repaid—