BALJADS. IIJ 



Now lie thee still, my infant dear, 

 I cannot bear thj sobs to see ; 



Harsh is thy father, little one. 

 And never will he shelter thee. 



Oh, that 1 were but in my grave, 



And winds were piping o'er me loud, 



And thou, my poor, my orphan babe. 

 Wert nestling in thy mother's shroiid. 



