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 Oh, fair and sweet was my baby,
Blue eyes, and hair of gold;
But this is ugly and wrinkled,
Cross, and cunning, and old.
I hate the touch of her fingers,
I hate the feel of her skin;
It's not the milk from my bosom,
But my blood, that she sucks in.
My face grows sharp with the torment;
Look! my arms are skin and bone!
Rake open the red coals, goodman,
And the witch shall have her own.
She'll come when she hears it crying,
In the shape of an owl or bat,
And she'll bring us our darling Anna
In place of her screeching brat. “
Then the goodman, Ezra Dalton,
Laid his hand upon her head:
“Thy sorrow is great, O woman!
I sorrow with thee,” he said.
“The paths to trouble are many,
And never but one sure way
Leads out to the light beyond it:
My poor wife, let us pray.”
Then he said to the great All-Father,
“Thy daughter is weak and blind;
Let her sight come back, and clothe her
Once more in her right mind.
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