Since I was here five years ago and mentioned the version I grew up with, I'm back to add those lyrics, plus some authored re-tellings, to this growing thread. Clearly, even though the song has been written down many times, the folk process is still at work and there are many favorite versions. And the simple yet gripping story lends itself to many occasions.

This first version, the song as my father learned it, was used by Louis Untermeyer in a poetry collection called Rainbow in the Sky, aimed generally at families or children. (1935, Harcourt, Brace and Company, New York)

In the chapter titled "I'll Tell You A Story," the introductory commentary notes:

About some of the other stories: "The Babes in the Wood" is one of the oldest. Perhaps you have read a version of it in your book of fairy tales, and part of it is like the opera "Hänsel and Gretel." You can see how it turned into a much longer poem in "The Ingoldsby Legends" or a more humorous one in Guy Wetmore Carryl's clever "How the Babes in the Wood Showed They Couldn't Be Beaten" on page 344. [I'll include this spinoff below]

Page 265

THE BABES IN THE WOOD

My dear, do you know
How, a long time ago,
Two poor little children,
Whose names I don't know,
Were stolen away
On a fine summer's day,
And left in a wood,
As I've heard people say?

And when it was night,
So sad was their plight,
The sun it went down,
And the moon gave no light!
They sobbed and they sighed,
And they bitterly cried,
And the poor little things
They lay down and died.

And when they were dead,
The robins so red
Brought strawberry leaves
And over them spread;
And all the day long
They sang them this song:
"Poor babes in the wood!
Poor babes in the wood!
And don't you remember
The babes in the wood?"

credited as "Old Ballad"

---

Here is the parody mentioned.

Page 344

How the Babes In the Wood Showed They Couldn't Be Beaten
Guy Wetmore Carryl (1873 - 1904)

A man of kind and noble mind
Was H. Gustavus Hyde.
'Twould be amiss to add to this
At present, for he died,
In full possession of his senses,
The day before my tale commences.

One half his gold his four-year-old-
Son Paul was known to win,
And Beatrix, whose age was six,
For all the rest came in,
Perceiving which, their Uncle Bed did
A thing that people said was splendid.

For by the hand he took them, and
Remarked in accents smooth:
"One thing I ask. Be mine the task
These stricken babes to soothe!
My country home is really charming:
I'll teach them all the joys of farming."

Concealing guile beneath a smile,
He took them to a wood,
And, with severe and most austere
Injunctions to be good,
He left them seated on a gateway,
And took his own departure straightway.

Though much afraid, the children stayed
From ten till nearly eight;
At times they wept, at times they slept,
But never left the gate:
Until the swift suspicion crossed them
The Uncle Benjamin had lost them.

Then quite unnerved, young Paul observed:
"It's like a dreadful dream,
And Uncle Ben has fallen ten
Per cent in my esteem.
Not only did he first usurp us,
But now he's left us here on purpose!"

   *   *   *   *

Four countless years their childish fears
Have made the reader pale,
Four countless years the public's tears
Have started at the tale,
For countless years much detestation
Has been expressed for the relation.

So draw a veil across the dale
Where stood that ghastly gate.
No need to tell. You know full well
What was their touching fate,
And how with leavee each little dead breast
Was covered by a Robin Redbreast!

But when they found them on the ground,
Although their life had ceased
Quite near to Paul there lay a small
White paper, neatly creased.
"Because of lack of any merit,
B. Hyde," it ran, "we disinherit!"

The Moral: If you deeply long
To punish one who's done you wrong,
Though in your lifetime fail you may,
Where there's a Will, there is a way!


The Ingoldsby Legends [1837] (according to Wikipedia) "is a collection of myths, legends, ghost stories and poetry written supposedly by Thomas Ingoldsby of Tappington Manor, actually a pen-name of an English clergyman named Richard Harris Barham." The particular poem in Barham's book is called The Babes In the Wood; Or, The Norfolk Tragedy. There are several online sources for downloading the complete contents of The Ingoldsby Legends. I'm adding a link to a side for reading online for those who are nervous about downloads.

Her niece, of whom I have before made honourable mention, is not a whit behind Mrs. Botherby in furnishing entertainment for the young folks. If little Charles has the aunt to sol fa him to slumber, Miss Jenny is equally fortunate in the possession of a Sappho of her own. It is to the air of 'Drops of Brandy' that Patty has adapted her version of a venerable ditty, which we have all listened to with respect and affection under its old title of

THE BABES IN THE WOOD; OR, THE NORFOLK TRAGEDY.
AN OLD SONG TO A NEW TUNE.

When we were all little and good --
A long time ago I'm afraid, Miss --
We were told of the Babes in the Wood
By their false, cruel Uncle betray'd, Miss;
Their Pa was a Squire, or a Knight;
In Norfolk I think his estate lay--
That is, if I recollect right,
For I've not read the history lately.¹
Rum ti, &c.

Their Pa and their Ma being seized
With a tiresome complaint, which, in some seasons,
People are apt to be teased
With, who're not on their guard against plum-seasons,
Their medical man shook his head
As he could not get well to the root of it;
And the Babes stood on each side the bed,
While their Uncle, he stood at the foot of it.

'Oh, Brother!' their Ma whisper'd faint
And low, for breath seeming to labour, 'Who'd
Tnink that this horrid complaint,
That's been going about in the neighbourhood,
Thus should attack me,-- nay, more,
My poor husband besides,-- and so fall on him!
Bringing us so near Death's door
That we can't avoid making a call on him!

'Now think, 'tis your Sister invokes
Your aid, and the last work she says is,
Be kind to those dear little folks
When our toes are turned up to the daisies!--
By the servants don't let them be snubb'd,--
-- Let Jane have her fruit and her custard,--
And mind Johnny's chilblains are rubb'd
Well with Whitehead's best essence of mustard.

'You know they'll be pretty well off in
Respect to what's called 'worldly gear,'
For John, when his Pa's in his coffin,
Comes in to three hundred a-year;
And Jane's to have five hundred pound
On her marriage paid down, ev'ry penny,
So you'll own a worse match might be found,
Any day in the week, than our Jenny!'

Here the Uncle pretended to cry,
And, like an old thorough-paced rogue, he
Put his handkerchief up to his eye,
And devoted himself to Old Bogey
If he did not make matters all right,
And said, should he covet their riches,
He 'wished the old Gentleman might
Fly away with him, body and breeches!'

No sooner, however, were they
Put to bed with a spade by the sexton,
Than he carried the darlings away
Out of that parish into the next one,
Giving out he should take them to town
And select the best school in the nation,
That John might not grow up a clown,
But receive a genteel education.

'Greek and Latin old twaddle I call!'
Says he, 'While his mind's ductile and plastic,
I'll place him at Dotheboys Hall
Where he'll learn all that's new and gymnastic.
While Jane, as, when girls have the dumps,
Fortune-hunters, by scores, to entrap 'em rise,
Shall go to those worthy old frumps,
The two Misses Tickler of Clapham Rise!'

Having thought on the How and the When
To get rid of his nephew and niece,
He sent for two ill-looking men,
And he gave them five guineas a-piece.--
Says he, 'Each of you take up a child
On the crupper, and when you have trotted
Some miles through that wood lone and wild,
Take your knife out and cut its carotid!'

'Done' and 'done' is pronounced on each side,
While the poor little dears are delighted
To think they a-cock-horse shall ride,
And are not in the least degree frighted;
They say their 'Ta! Ta!' as they start,
And they prattle so nice on their journey,
That the rogues themselves wish to their heart
They could finish the job by attorney.

Nay, one was so taken aback
By seeing such spirit and life in them,
That he fairly exclaim'd, 'I say, Jack,
I'm blow'd if I can put a knife in them!'--
'Pooh!' says his pal, 'you great dunce!
You've pouch'd the good gentleman's money,
So out with your whinger at once,
And scrag Jane, while I spiflicate Johnny!'

He refused, and harsh language ensued,
Which ended at length in a duel,
When he that was mildest in mood
Gave the truculent rascal his gruel;
The Babes quake with hunger and fear,
While the ruffian his dead comrade, Jack, buries;
Then he cries, 'Loves, amuse yourselves here
With the hips, and the haws, and the blackberries!

'I'll be back in a couple of shakes;
So don't, dears, be quivering and quaking,
I'm going to get you some cakes,
And a nice butter'd roll that's a-baking!'
He rode off with a tear in his eye,
Which ran down his rough cheek, and wet it,
As he said to himself with a sigh,
'Pretty souls!-- don't they wish they may get it!!'

From that moment the Babes ne'er caught sight
Of the wretch who thus wrought their undoing,
But pass'd all that day and that night
In wandering about and 'boo-hoo'-ing.'
The night proved cold, dreary, and dark,
So that, worn out with sighings and sobbings,
Next morn they were found stiff and stark,
And stone-dead, by two little Cock-Robins.

These two little birds it sore grieves
To see what so cruel a dodge I call,--
They cover the bodies with leaves,
An interment quite ornithological;
It might more expensive have been,
But I doubt, though I've not been to see 'em,
If among those in all Kensal Green
You could find a more neat Mausoleum.

Now, whatever your rogues may suppose,
Conscience always makes restless their pillows,
And Justice, though blind, has a nose
That sniffs out all conceal'd peccadilloes.
The wicked old Uncle they say,
In spite of his riot and revel,
Was hippish and qualmish all day,
And dream't all night long of the d--l.

He grew gouty, dyspeptic, and sour,
And his brow, once so smooth and so placid,
Fresh wrinkles acquired every hour,
And whatever he swallow'd turn'd acid
The neighbours thought all was not right,
Scarcely one with him ventured to parley,
And Captain Swing came in the night,
And burnt all his beans and his barley.

There was hardly a day but some fox
Ran away with his geese and his ganders;
His wheat had the mildew, his flocks
Took the rot, and his horses the glanders;
His daughters drank rum in their tea,
His son, who had gone for a sailor,
Went down in a steamer at sea,
And his wife ran away with a tailor!

It was clear he lay under a curse;
None would hold with him any communion,
Every day matters grew worse and worse,
Till they ended at length in The Union;
While his man being caught in some fact,
(The particular crime I've forgotten,)
When he came to be hanged for the act,
Split, and told the whole story to Cotton.

Understanding the matter was blown,
His employer became apprehensive
Of what, when 'twas more fully known,
Might ensue -- he grew thoughtful and pensive;
He purchased some sugar-of-lead,
Took it home, popp'd it into his porridge,
Ate it up, and then took to his bed,
And so died in the workhouse at Norwich.

MORAL.

Ponder well now, dear Parents, each word
That I've wrote, and when Sirius rages
In the dog-days, don't be so absurd
As to blow yourselves out with Green-gages!
Of stone-fruits in general be shy,
And reflect it's a fact beyond question
That Grapes, when they're spelt with an i,
Promote anything else but digestion.--

-- When you set about making your will,
Which is commonly done when a body's ill,
Mind, and word it with caution and skill,
And avoid, if you can, any codicil!
When once you've appointed an heir
To the fortune you've made, or obtain'd, ere
You leave a reversion beware
Whom you place in contingent remainder!

Executors, Guardians, and all
Who have children to mind, don't ill treat them,
Nor think that, because they are small
And weak, you may beat them, and cheat them;
Remember that 'ill-gotten goods
Never thrive;' their possession's but cursory,
So never turn out in the woods
Little folks you should keep in the nursery.

Be sure he who does such base things
Will ne'er stifle Conscience's clamour;
His 'riches will make themselves wings,'
And his property come to the hammer!
Then He,-- and not those he bereaves,
Will have most cause for sighings and sobbings,
When he finds himself smother'd with leaves
(Of fat catalogues) heap'd up by Robins!

NOTES

¹See Bloomfield's History of the County of Norfolk, in which all the particulars of this lamentable history are (or ought to be) fully detailed, together with the names of the parties, and an elaborate pedigree of the family.

"This edition of The Ingoldsby Legends or Mirth and Marvels by "Thomas Ingoldsby" (pen-name of The Rev. Richard H. Barham) is taken from a copy published by Humphrey Milord for the Oxford University Press, 1921."