THE BEREAVED ROBIN 



O PRETTY mother robin, 



What makes your cry so shrill? 



What makes you flit from bough to bough. 

 This April morning chill? 



Ah, gentle mother robin. 



What wonder that you cry! 

 Your young have fallen from the nest 



And cold in death they lie. 



O tender mother robin, 



Those young you brooded o'er 

 So lovingly in downy nest 



Will greet you nevermore. 



O stricken mother robin. 



The cruel, thoughtless boy 

 Who robbed you of your tender brood 



Has reft your life of joy. 



O frantic mother robin, 



What words can tell the grief 



That rends your gentle mother heart 

 With wounds beyond relief ? 



O childless mother robin, 



My tears for you shall flow ; 

 May God grant you forgetfulness 



From all your mother's woe. 





vv-;" ,1///' 



[16] 



