Hampstead, and between it and North Bovey. It seems to me that the story needs but a touch, and it resolves itself into a ballad.
BRENNAN MOOR.
Three ravens, they flew over Blackistone,
Down-a-down, hey and hey!
And loudly they laughed over Moreton town,
Over Moreton town,
Saying, Where and O where shall we dine to-day ?
On the moor, for sure, where runneth no way.
As I sat a-swaying all in a tree,
Down-a-down, hey and hey !
I saw a sweet mother and her babie,
And her babie,
Saying, Sleep, O sleep. I 'm to Moreton fair,
For Babie and me to buy trinkets rare.
As I was a-flying o'er Brennan Down,
Down-a-down, hey and hey!
I saw her a-wending her way to town,
Away to town.
Our dinners are ready, our feasting free,
Away to Brennan, black brothers, with me.
The babe upon Brennan, so cold and bare,
Down-a-down, hey and hey!
The mother a-gadding to Moreton fair,
To Moreton fair.
We '1l laugh and we 'll quaff the red blood free,
There is plenty for all of us, brothers three.
Three ravens flew over Blackistone,
Down-a-down, hey and hey!
And loudly they laughed over Moreton town,
Over Moreton town.
With an armful of toys, came mother, to none
Save a little white huddle of well-picked bone.
