Now lie thee still, my infant dear, I cannot bear thy sobs to see, Harsh is thy father, little one, And never will he shelter thee. Oh, that I were but in my grave, And winds were piping o'er me loud, And thou, my poor, my orphan babe, Wert nestling in thy mother's shroud! THE LULLABY OF A FEMALE CONVICT TO HER CHILD THE NIGHT PREVIOUS TO EXECUTION. Sleep, baby mine,[1] enkerchieft on my bosom, Thy cries they pierce again my bleeding breast; Sleep, baby mine, not long thou'lt have a mother To lull thee fondly in her arms to rest. Baby, why dost thou keep this sad complaining? Long from mine eyes have kindly slumbers fled; Hush, hush, my babe, the night is quickly waning, And I would fain compose my aching head. Poor wayward wretch! and who will heed thy weeping, When soon an outcast on the world thou'lt be? Who then will soothe thee, when thy mother's sleeping In her low grave of shame and infamy? Sleep, baby mine--Tomorrow I must leave thee, And I would snatch an interval of rest: Sleep these last moments ere the laws bereave thee, For never more thou'lt press a mother's breast. Footnotes: [1] Sir Philip Sidney has a poem, beginning, "Sleep, baby mine." THE SAVOYARD'S RETURN. Oh! yonder is the well known spot, My dear, my long lost native home! Oh, welcome is yon little cot, Where I shall rest, no more to roam! Oh! I have travell'd far and wide, O'er many a distant foreign land; Each place, each province I have tried. And sung and danced my saraband. But all their charms could not prevail To steal my heart from yonder vale. Of distant climes the false report It lured me from my native land; It bade me rove--my sole support My cymbals and my saraband. The woody dell, the hanging rock, The chamois skipping o'er the heights; The plain adorn'd with many a flock, And, oh! a thousand more delights, That grace yon dear beloved retreat, Have backward won my weary feet. Now safe return'd, with wandering tired, No more my little home I'll leave; And many a tale of what I've seen Shall while away the winter's eve. Oh! I have wandered far and wide, O'er many a distant foreign land; Each place, each province I have tried, And sung and danced my saraband; But all their charms could not prevail To steal my heart from yonder vale. A PASTORAL SONG. Come, Anna! come, the morning dawns, Faint streaks of radiance tinge the skies; Come, let us seek the dewy lawns, And watch the early lark arise; While nature, clad in vesture gay, Hails the loved return of day. Our flocks, that nip the scanty blade Upon the moor, shall seek the vale; And then, secure beneath the shade, We'll listen to the throstle's tale; And watch the silver clouds above, As o'er the azure vault they rove.