Nightfall.

The moth-hour of eve is no time to be roaming,
When the hills are all blue and remote in the gloaming,
So I bade him be home ere the set of the sun,
O where are you playing, my littlest one?
Is it keeping a tryst with the fairies you be,
Or reaping the riches of someone's fruit tree?
Ah! woe to the mother who has for a son,
Such a reckless and mischievous littlest one.
Come home, lad, come home, for the shadows are thick,
And the darkness is deep—sure, it is a stout stick,
I'll be needing to teach ye a lesson my son,
(Is it you that is calling, my littlest one?)

—Patrice Morant.

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