 | Ballads and Lyrics of Socialism: 1883-1908 |  |
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Two Lullabies
I
Sleep, sleep, my little baby dear,
Thee shall no want or pain come near;
Sleep softly on thy downy nest,
Or on this lace veiled mother-breast.
Thee shall no want or pain come near;
Sleep softly on thy downy nest,
Or on this lace veiled mother-breast.
Thy cradle is all silken lined,
Wrought roses on thy curtains twined,
Warm woolly blankets o'er thee spread,
And soft white pillows for thy head.
Wrought roses on thy curtains twined,
Warm woolly blankets o'er thee spread,
And soft white pillows for thy head.
Much gold those little hands shall hold,
And wealth about thy life shall fold,
And thou shalt see nor pain nor strife,
Nor the low ills of common life.
And wealth about thy life shall fold,
And thou shalt see nor pain nor strife,
Nor the low ills of common life.
These little feet shall never tread
Except on paths soft-carpeted,
And all life's flowers in wreaths shall twine
To deck that darling head of thine.
Except on paths soft-carpeted,
And all life's flowers in wreaths shall twine
To deck that darling head of thine.
Thou shalt have overflowing measure
Of wealth and joy and peace and pleasure,
And thou shalt be right charitable
With all the crumbs that leave thy table.
Of wealth and joy and peace and pleasure,
And thou shalt be right charitable
With all the crumbs that leave thy table.
And thou shalt praise God every day
For His good gifts that come thy way,
And again thank Him, and again,
That thou art not as other men.
For His good gifts that come thy way,
And again thank Him, and again,
That thou art not as other men.
For 'midst thy wealth thou wilt recall—
'Tis to God's grace thou owest it all;
And when all's spent that life has given,
Thou'lt have a golden home in heaven.
'Tis to God's grace thou owest it all;
And when all's spent that life has given,
Thou'lt have a golden home in heaven.
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II
Sleep, little baby, sleep,
Though the wind is cruel and cold,
And my shawl that I've wrapped thee in
Is old and ragged and thin;
And my hand is too frozen to hold—
Yet my bosom's still warm—so creep
Close to thy mother, and sleep!
Though the wind is cruel and cold,
And my shawl that I've wrapped thee in
Is old and ragged and thin;
And my hand is too frozen to hold—
Yet my bosom's still warm—so creep
Close to thy mother, and sleep!
Sleep, little baby, and rest,
Though we wander alone through the night,
And there is no food for me,
No shelter for me and thee.
Through the windows red fires shine bright,
And tables show, heaped with the best—
But there's naught for us there—so rest.
Though we wander alone through the night,
And there is no food for me,
No shelter for me and thee.
Through the windows red fires shine bright,
And tables show, heaped with the best—
But there's naught for us there—so rest.
Sleep, you poor little thing!
Just as pretty and dear
As any fine lady's child.
Oh, but my heart grows wild!—
Is it worth while to stay here?
What good thing from life will spring
For you—you poor little thing?
Just as pretty and dear
As any fine lady's child.
Oh, but my heart grows wild!—
Is it worth while to stay here?
What good thing from life will spring
For you—you poor little thing?
Sleep, you poor little thing!
Mine, my treasure, my own—
I clasp you, I hold you close,
My darling, my bird, my rose!
Rich mothers have hearts like stone,
Or else some help they would bring
To you—you poor little thing?
Mine, my treasure, my own—
I clasp you, I hold you close,
My darling, my bird, my rose!
Rich mothers have hearts like stone,
Or else some help they would bring
To you—you poor little thing?
Sleep, little baby, sleep—
If some good, rich mother would take
My dear, I would kiss thee, and then
Never come near thee again—
Not though my heart should break!
I could leave thee, dear, for thy sake—
For the river is dark and deep,
And gives sleep, little baby, sleep!
If some good, rich mother would take
My dear, I would kiss thee, and then
Never come near thee again—
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I could leave thee, dear, for thy sake—
For the river is dark and deep,
And gives sleep, little baby, sleep!
1887.
| Ballads and Lyrics of Socialism: 1883-1908 | |