 | Songs and ballads |  |
37
THE ORPHAN BOY.
The room is old,—the night is cold,—
But night is dearer far than day;
For then, in dreams, to him it seems,
That she's returned who's gone away!
His tears are past,—he clasps her fast,—
Again she holds him on her knee;
And,—in his sleep,—he murmurs deep,
“Oh! Mother, go no more from me!”
But night is dearer far than day;
For then, in dreams, to him it seems,
That she's returned who's gone away!
His tears are past,—he clasps her fast,—
Again she holds him on her knee;
And,—in his sleep,—he murmurs deep,
“Oh! Mother, go no more from me!”
But morning breaks, the child awakes,—
The Dreamer's happy dream hath fled;
The fields look sear, and cold, and drear,—
Like orphans, mourning Summer dead!—
The wild birds spring, on shivering wing,
Or, cheerless, chirp from tree to tree;
And still he cries, with weeping eyes,
“Oh! Mother dear, come back to me!”
The Dreamer's happy dream hath fled;
The fields look sear, and cold, and drear,—
Like orphans, mourning Summer dead!—
The wild birds spring, on shivering wing,
Or, cheerless, chirp from tree to tree;
And still he cries, with weeping eyes,
“Oh! Mother dear, come back to me!”
Can no one tell where angels dwell?—
He's called them oft till day grew dim;
If they were near,—and they could hear,—
He thinks they'd bring her back to him!—
“Oh! angels sweet, conduct my feet,”
He cries, “where'er her home may be;
Oh! lead me on to where she's gone,
Or bring my Mother back to me!
He's called them oft till day grew dim;
If they were near,—and they could hear,—
He thinks they'd bring her back to him!—
“Oh! angels sweet, conduct my feet,”
He cries, “where'er her home may be;
Oh! lead me on to where she's gone,
Or bring my Mother back to me!
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