  In the parish register of Chapel-en-le-Frith is the sad entry of the burial of a child which was found dead in the neighbourhood—"S. Sept. 20, 1656. A poor child found dead in ye Forest." The following ballad, from the pen of Mr. Henry Kirke, is founded on this circumstance. It has not before been printed. The fire burns brightly upon the hearth, And dances and crackles with glee; And the cottar's wife sits before the blaze, But the child—ah, where is she. The cottar's hand is on the latch, And he stands by the opened door, And his wife she kisses his sunburnt cheek, But his child he shall see no more. "She is gone out to play," the dame replied, "And will soon be back again;" But their hearts felt heavy, they knew not why And ach'd sorely as if with pain. And soon the gude wife on the ample board Has spread out the frugal fare, But a mist rose up in the cottar's eyes As he gazed on that empty chair. And he started up from his chair and cried, "I can stay no longer here, I must go and find my own bonnie child, And he wandered around from house to house, Across the weary wild; And his heart grew heavier every step, For no one had seen his child. The night had drawn her curtains dark, And every star shone clear; But still he followed his fruitless search, Half dead with fatigue and fear. Through brake and copse of the forest drear He followed his weary way, Till the rosy light of the morning sun Told the dawn of another day. It bathed his face in gladsome light With the stream of its glorious ray, It seemed but to mock his saddened heart, And he turned with a sigh away; He turned away down a mossy dell, Where the sunbeams danced and smiled, And there midst the fern and the mossy cups The father found his child. One little arm beneath its head On the mossy bank was laid, And the sunbeams lighted its little face, And the wind with its tresses played. A smile still lingered on those sweet lips, Which seemed as by sleep untied, But the father's heart grew cold as he looked, For he knew it had smiled—as it died. |
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