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Dread not their taunts, my little life!
I'll teach my boy the sweetest things;
My little babe! thy lips are still,
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.
Oh! smile on me, my little lamb!
Then, pretty dear, be not afraid;
'Tis eight o'clock,—a clear March night,
The moon is up—the sky is blue,
The owlet in the moonlight air,
He shouts from nobody knows where;
—Why bustle thus about your door,