THE BABES IN THE fWOOD.


Their pretty lips with black-berries,
 Were all besmeared and dyed,
And when they saw the darksome night,
 They sat them down and cried.
Thus wandered these poor innocents,
 Till death did end their grief,
In one another's arms they died,
 As wanting due relief:
No burial this pretty pair
 Of any man receives,
Till Robin-red-breast piously
 Did cover them with leaves.
And now the heavy wrath of God
 Upon their uncle fell;
Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house,
 His conscience felt an hell;
 His barns were fir'd, his goods consumed,
 His lands were barren made,
 His cattle died within the field,
 And nothing with him stay'd.
 And in a voyage to Portugal
 Two of his sons did die: