IN FOLK SONGS 



125 



She wept, she cried : " Oh ! My poor home ! 



I'll build no more where armed men roam, 

 But on a mountain top so high 



That cruel men will not pass by ; 

 Only perchance the King of France 



May come that way, by some good chance, 

 If so, my love I'll manifest 



By giving him my little nest." 



But alas for the nest! The home which 

 the returning swallow left in the fall, so 



pretty and so well 

 stored, has been 

 robbed and in- 

 jured. Listen, as 

 i the poor bird grieves: — 



When I went away 

 In the fall, — 

 Full was all ; 



When I come again 

 In the spring. 

 Not a thing — 

 Eaten all ! Eaten all ! 



As she examines >^ more 



the ruin of her home, her v^ 

 creases, and she sobs : — 



closely 



m- 



