Chapter CLXXVII

[Another version from MS. Sloane, 1489, fol. 17, written in
the time of Charles I.]

Hic hoc, the carrion crow,
For I have shot something too low:
I have quite missed my mark,
And shot the poor sow to the heart;
Wife, bring treacle in a spoon,
Or else the poor sow's heart will down.

CLXXVIII.

[Song of a little boy while passing his hour of solitude in a
corn-field.]

Awa' birds, away!
Take a little, and leave a little,
And do not come again;
For if you do,
I will shoot you through,
And there is an end of you.