IN WATTLE-BOUGHS 



Oh, gaily sings the bird, and the wattle-boughs 

 are stirr'd 

 And rustled by the scented breath of 

 spring ; 

 Oh, the dreary wistful longing ! Oh, the faces 

 that are thronging ! 

 Oh, the voices that are vaguely whispering ! 



Oh, tell me, father mine, ere the good ship 

 cross't the brine, 

 On the gangway one mute hand-grip we 

 exchang'd, 

 Do you, past the grave, employ, for your 

 stubborn, reckless boy, 

 Those petitions that in life were ne'er 

 estranged ? 



Oh, tell me, sister dear, parting word and 

 parting tear 

 Never pass'd between us ; — let me bear the 

 blame. 

 Are you living, girl, or dead ? bitter tears 

 since then I've shed 

 For the lips that lisp'd with mine a mother's 



name. 



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