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49.—THE ROBIN PURSUING A
That, after their bewildering,
Did cover with leaves the little children
'Tis all that he wishes to do.
A crimson as bright as thine own:
50.-OLD CHRISTMAS. Now he who knows old Christmas,
He knows a carle  of worth; For he is as good a fellow,
As any upon the earth !  Carle-a robust, strong, hearty fellow.
He comes warm cloaked and coated,
And buttoned up to the chin;
'Twill open and let him in.
So we sweep the hearth up clean; We set him the old arm-chair,
And a cushion whereon to lean. And with sprigs of holly and ivy,
We make the house look gay;
For it was his ancient way.
And bring out wine and meat;
Our dear old friend to greet.
That does one good to hear;
As he hath done many a year.
He asks in a cheerful tone, Jack, Kate, and little Annie,
He remembers them every one ! What a fine old fellow he is !
With his faculties all as clear, And his heart as warm and light,
As a man in his fortieth year!  Broach the barrel-tap it-make it ready to draw from.
What a fine old fellow, in troth, 
Not one of your griping elves,  Who with plenty of money to spare,
Think only about themselves.
And holiday begs for all;
For the great ones and the small !
And singeth with might and main ;
 Elves-plural of elf, which properly means a fairy or spirit; sometimes, as here, an unnatural kind of being, one different from men in general.
Sport among the feather'd choir
52.—THE LULLABY. Sleep, my child, my darling child, my lovely child,
sleep: The sun sleepeth upon the green fields ; The moon sleepeth upon the blue waves ; The morning sleepeth upon a bed of roses ; The evening sleepeth on the tops of the dark
hills ; The winds sleep in the hollow of the rocks;
The stars sleep upon a pillow of clouds. Sleep, my child, my darling child, my lovely child,
The mist sleepeth in the bosom of the valley, And the broad lake under the shadow of the
trees; The flowers sleep while the night dew falls, And the wild birds sleep upon the mountainsSleep in quiet, sleep in joy, my darling, May thy sleep never be the sleep of sorrow ! Sleep, my child, my darling child, my lovely child,
53.—LUCY GRAY. Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray,
And, when I crossed the wild,
The solitary child.
She dwelt on a wide moor;
Beside a cottage door!
The hare upon the green;
Will never more be seen.
You to the town must go;
Your mother through the snow.”