Page:Wee wee songs for our little pets.djvu/73

"Not well! Oh, yes, you're very sick!
  I don't believe it's true;
You only want to coax Mamma
  To get nice things for you."

But Emeline grew worse and worse,
  Till she could hardly speak;
And when the doctor came he said,
  She would not live a week.

And then it rushed on Betsy's mind,
  How wicked she had been;
The cruel treatment of the child
  She never felt till then.

Over her sister's bed she hung,
  With many a bitter sigh,
And laid her arms about her neck,
  and begged her not to die.

"Forgive me, Emeline, or else
  I do not wish to live;
Oh speak, dear sister, speak once more,
  And say you will forgive!

The poor, dear, suffering, dying child
  Just raised her languid eye,
And moved her lips, and tried to say,
  Dear Betsey, do not cry!