A BIRTII-DAY BALLAD. Ill 



Thou art building towers of pebbles, Genie, 



Pile them up brave and high, 

 And leave them to follow a bee, Genie, 



As he wandereth singing by ; 

 But if thy towers fall down, Genie, 



And if the brown bee is lost, 

 Never weep, for thou must learn, Genie, 



How soon life's schemes are crost. 



Thy hand is in a bright boy's, Genie, 



And he calls thee his sweet wee wife, 

 But Jet not thy little heart think, Genie, 



Childhood the prophet of life ; 

 It may be life's minstrel, Genie, 



And sing sweet songs and clear, 

 But minstrel and prophet now, Genie, 



Are not united here. 



What will thy future fate be, Genie, 



Alas ! shall I live to see ! 

 For thou art scarcely a sapling, Genie, 



And I am a moss-grown tree ! 



