 | Songs and Lyrics |  |
18
Her Weary Hand.
Her weary hand the needle plied,
Her weary foot the cradle stirred,
While in the midnight hour she cried;
“Be-ba, my little bonny bird!
Her weary foot the cradle stirred,
While in the midnight hour she cried;
“Be-ba, my little bonny bird!
“Where never moon nor star can shine,
By dread of danger undeterr'd,
Thy father toileth in the mine
To win a frock for wee, wee bird.
By dread of danger undeterr'd,
Thy father toileth in the mine
To win a frock for wee, wee bird.
“He while the grey-bird warbled went
Where feather'd warbler's never heard;
But he'll be back at dawn, content
If all be well with wee, wee bird.
Where feather'd warbler's never heard;
But he'll be back at dawn, content
If all be well with wee, wee bird.
“Be-ba,—you won't?—you little brat!
Well I will tell him all's occurr'd:
No, no!—Bow, bow!—Hark, hark! what's that?
Be-ba, my little bonny bird!”
Well I will tell him all's occurr'd:
No, no!—Bow, bow!—Hark, hark! what's that?
Be-ba, my little bonny bird!”
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