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16
Ned Farmer's Scrap Book.
And see! she clasps, with trembling arm,
In maniac hope to keep it warm,
The Babe that ne'er again may stir,
And yet that Babe was all to her.
Where be her kindred? where its sire?
To sooth her blighted brain of fire;
Heard ye that piercing outcry wild?
She knows 'tis dead—that Gipsy Child!
I wish fervently that mankind were obliged to make into parcels all (or most of) the unasked advice they give. I rather opine that the cost of the paper and string, together with the trouble of directing, would put a partial stop to its indulgences.
