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A. DIRGE FOR A CHILD.
Let us find out a pleasant tomb
For the little one,
Of the life that it begun.
Let us bury the child.
Decay must finger its smooth brow,
Those limbs to the tomb must go, And the revelling worms we know
Are awaiting it below. But we'll think of the young thing smiling, Long hours for sad hearts beguiling; And we know there's a gentle whiling
In the young tomb flowers.
Sing a pleasant song, young mother!
Check complaints that do arise !
Above the arched skies.
From its grave.
Flowers fair as a maid just wed,
Winds will laugh at the blossoms dead. But spring from the south is coming, On the hills again shall be bloomingThe frost king usurper's assuming
A short reign.
As the winds sing merry measure
O'er the suminer months' decline,
O’er that lost one of thine.
Like festal hall.
A DIRGE FOR A CHILD.
Then find a pleasant place to lie
That little white form in,
And the birds make merry din.
“ Whate'er the wanton spring, When she doth draper the ground with beauties, Toils for, comes home to autumn."
He is a hale old man;
He is a glad old man;
He is a talking old man;
A warring, swearing young man,
He is sitting by the warm fire,
Red lips that fair child's are,
'Tis a pleasant sight to see,
An old man glads the eye,