Since, cobbler, thou dost speak Of one thou lovest well, Hear of that king what grievous thing This very morn befell. Whilst round thy homely bench Thy well-belovéd played, In yonder hall beneath a pall A little one was laid; Thy well-belovéd’s face Was rosy with delight, But ’neath that pall in yonder hall The little face is white; Whilst by a merry voice Thy soul is filled with cheer, Another weeps for one that sleeps All mute and cold anear; One father hath his hope, And one is childless now; _He_ wears a crown and rules a town-- Only a cobbler _thou_! Wouldst thou exchange thy lot At price of such a woe? I’ll nest no more above thy door, But, as thou bidst me, go. _Cobbler._ Nay, stork! thou shalt remain-- I mean not what I said; Good neighbors we must always be, So make thy home o’erhead. I would not change my bench For any monarch’s throne, Nor sacrifice at any price My darling and my own! Stork! on my roof-tree bide, That, seeing thee anear, I’ll thankful be God sent by thee Me and my darling here! “LOLLYBY, LOLLY, LOLLYBY” Last night, whiles that the curfew bell ben ringing, I heard a moder to her dearie singing “Lollyby, lolly, lollyby”; And presently that chylde did cease hys weeping, And on his moder’s breast did fall a-sleeping To “lolly, lolly, lollyby.” Faire ben the chylde unto his moder clinging, But fairer yet the moder’s gentle singing-- “Lollyby, lolly, lollyby”; And angels came and kisst the dearie smiling In dreems while him hys moder ben beguiling With “lolly, lolly, lollyby.” Then to my harte saies I: “Oh, that thy beating Colde be assuaged by some sweete voice repeating ‘Lollyby, lolly, lollyby’; That like this lyttel chylde I, too, ben sleeping With plaisaunt phantasies about me creeping, To ‘lolly, lolly, lollyby’!” Some time--mayhap when curfew bells are ringing-- A weary harte shall heare straunge voices singing “Lollyby, lolly, lollyby”; Some time, mayhap, with Chryst’s love round me streaming, I shall be lulled into eternal dreeming, With “lolly, lolly, lollyby.” LIZZIE AND THE BABY I wonder ef all wimmin air Like Lizzie is when we go out To theaters an’ concerts where Is things the papers talk about. Do other wimmin fret an’ stew Like they wuz bein’ crucified-- Frettin’ a show or concert through, With wonderin’ ef the baby cried?