A BOHEMIAN LEGEND.
The little child stood on the bench,
And cried as loud as child can cry.
“Will you be quiet, naughty one—
That is the way that gypsies cry.
“Twelve o’clock will soon be striking,
And see the dinner is not done;
What will father say, you spoilt one,
When my work lies there all undone.
“Hush! here are your playthings—wagon,
Horses, soldiers, whatever you will.”
Scarcely had she finished speaking,
All was thrown away with a will.
And the child began its howling,
Shrieking out like a thing possessed;
“Hush! hush!” cried the tired mother,
“So cry souls that die unconfessed.
“Come witch—come and take her naughty—
Hush! hush! or I will call the witch.
Come witch, come and take her naughty—
Oh, good God! can that be the witch?”
Little humpback, horrible form,
Half revealed by the ample cloak,
In the room on crutches hobbling,
Came the witch; her voice was a croak.
“Give me the child.” “Oh Holy Christ,
Forgive my sins,” the mother cried.
“Ah, never from the room the witch
Will go, till one of us has died.”
