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Oh, — they 're in the window seat,
Now one pretty little kiss,
(From "The Floweret")
My own mamma!
My dear mamma!
That she 'll be here,
Our mother dear, -
'Tis just a week,
Since on my cheek
It seems like two,
I never knew
My tangled hair
She smoothed with care, With water bathed my brow;
And all with such
A gentle touch, There's none to do so now.
I cannot play
When she's away; There's none to laugh with me;
And much I miss
The tender kiss, The seat upon her knee.
When up to bed
I'm sorrowing led, I linger on the stairs ;
I lie and weep —
I cannot sleep-
But she will come,
She 'll be at home
I hope that she
Will never be
Anna M. Wells
TO MY MOTHER
THEY tell us of an Indian tree
Which howsoe'er the sun and sky May tempt its boughs to wander free,
And shoot and blossom, wide and high, Far better loves to bend its arms
Downward again to that dear earth From which the life, that fills and warms
Its grateful being, first had birth. 'T is thus, though wooed by flattering friends,
And fed with fame (if fame it be), This heart, my own dear mother, bends, With love's true instinct, back to thee!
THE bairnies cuddle doon at nicht
Wi' muckle faught an' din; “Oh try and sleep, ye waukrife rogues, Your faither's comin' in."
They never heed a word I speak;
I try to gie a froon, But aye I hap them up an' cry, « Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon.”
Wee Jamie wi' the curly heid
He aye sleeps next the wa'
The rascal starts them a'.
They stop awee the soun',
But, ere five minutes gang, wee Rab
Cries out, frae 'neath the claes, “ Mither, mak' Tam gie ower at ance,
He's kittlin' wi' his taes." The mischief's in that Tam for tricks,
He'd bother half the toon; But aye I hap them up and cry, “Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon."
At length they hear their father's fit,
An', as he steeks the door, They turn their faces to the wa',
While Tam pretends to snore. “ Hae a' the weans been gude ?” he asks, ,
As he pits aff his shoon; “ The bairnies, John, are in their beds, An' lang since cuddled doon."
An' just afore we bed oorsels,
We look at our wee lambs;
An' as I straik each croon,
, “Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon."
The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht
Wi' mirth that's dear to me;
Will quaten doon their glee.
May He who rules aboon
SAFE sleeping on its mother's breast
The smiling babe appears,
Now washed in sudden tears: