Song XIV. in the Dead of the Night

In the dead of the Night, when, with labour opprest, All mortals enjoy the sweet blessings of rest, A boy knock'd at my door, I awoke with the noise, Who is it, said I, that my rest thus destroys?

He answer'd so softly, so gently, so mild, 'I am a poor little unfortunate child, 'It's a cold rainy night, I am wet to the skin, 'And I have lost my way, so pray let me in.'

In compassion I rose, and striking a light, I open'd the door, when a boy met my sight, He had wings at his shoulders, the rain from them dripp'd, And with bow and arrow, the boy was equipp'd.

I stirr'd up my fire, set him down by my side, And with a warm napkin the wet from him dry'd: I chass'd him all o'er to keep out the cold air, And the wet I wrung out with my hand from his hair,

No sooner from wet and from cold he found ease, When, taking up his bow, said, 'Madam, if you 'please, 'If you please, I would fain by experience know, 'If the rain has not damag'd the string of my bow.'

Then straight from his quaver an arrow he drew, Which aiming at my heart, twang went the yew; 'My bow is not damag'd nor yet is my dart, 'But you'll find some trouble in bearing the smart.