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Without a mother's tender care,
The little thing must die,
One service to supply ;
The lambs sport gayly on the grass
When scarcely born a day;
Trots frolicksome away,
To nurse the Dolly, gayly drest,
And stroke its flaxen hair, Or ring the coral at its waist,
With silver bells so fair, Is all the little creature can, That is so soon to be a man.
Full many a summer's sun must glow
And lighten up the skies,
To anything of size;
Then surely, when each little limb
And youth and manhood strengthen him
For toil and enterprise,
LITTLE baby, lay your head
Yes, my darling, well I know
For the window shutteth fast,
THE OLD ARM-CHAIR
I LOVE it! I love it! and who shall dare
with sighs; 'T is bound by a thousand bands to my heart; Not a tie will break, not a link will start. Would ye learn the spell ?- a mother sat
there, And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.
In childhood's hour I linger'd near
I sat and watch'd her many a day,
gray; And I almost worshipp'd her when she
smiled, And turn'd from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rollid on, but the last one sped -
'Tis past! 't is past! but I gaze on it now With quivering breath and throbbing brow: 'Twas there she nursed me, 't was there she
died; And memory flows with lava tide. Say it is folly, and deem me weak, While the scalding drops start down my
cheek; But I love, I love it! and cannot tear My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.