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THE SICK CHILD.
119
How happy are those children dear,
Who, on their couch of pain,
Behold a mother always near,
But still, I'll not complain.
There's nought on earth I love so much
As your kind face to see,
And now, indeed, the time is short
We can together be;
Still draw me closer to your side,
And to your bosom fold,
For then my cough I do not heed,
Nor feel the winter's cold.
Yet when the storm is loud and wild,
I cover up my head,
And pray Almighty God to save
My father from the dead;
So, in his lonely midnight watch
Upon the tossing sea,
Perhaps beneath the solemn stars
He will remember me.
