THE IDIOT BOY.

Tis eight oclock,--a clear March night,

The moon is up--the sky is blue,

The owlet in the moonlight air,

He shouts from nobody knows where;

He lengthens out his lonely shout,

Halloo! halloo! a long halloo!

--Why bustle thus about your door,

What means this bustle, Betty Foy?

Why are you in this mighty fret?

And why on horseback have you set

Him whom you love, your idiot boy?

Beneath the moon that shines so bright,

Till she is tired, let Betty Foy

With girt and stirrup ?ddle-faddle;

But wherefore set upon a saddle

Him whom she loves, her idiot boy?

Theres scarce a soul thats out of bed;

Good Betty! put him down again;

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