Dread not their taunts, my little life! And underneath the spreading tree If his sweet boy he could forsake, I'll teach my boy the sweetest things; And thou hast almost suck'd thy fill. —Where art thou gone my own dear child? What wicked looks are those I see? Alas! alas! that look so wild, It never, never came from me : Then I must be for ever sad. K Oh! smile on me, my little lamb ! My love for thee has well been tried: Then, pretty dear, be not afraid; And there, my babe; we'll live for aye. 'Tis eight o'clock,—a clear March night, The moon is up—the sky is blue, He lengthens out his lonely shout, —Why bustle thus about your door, |