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Then do not fear, my boy! for thee
Thy father cares not for my breast, 'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest : 'Tis all thine own! and if its hue Be changed, that was so fair to view, 'Tis fair enough for thee, my
dove ! My beauty, little child, is flown; But thou wilt live with me in love, And what if my poor cheek be brown? 'Tis well for me, thou canst not see How pale and wan it else would be.
Dread not their taunts, my little life?
I'll teaah my boy the sweetest things ;
-Where art thou gone my own dear child?
Oh! smile on me, my little lamb !