LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT. Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile! Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! I canna chuse, but ever will Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! But doe not, doe not, prettie mine, Bairne, sin thy cruel father's gane, He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve: MY CHILD. My babe and I right saft will ly, Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth For if we doe but chance to bow, Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! ANONYMOUS. MY CHILD. I CANNOT make him dead! His fair sunshiny head Is ever bounding round my study chair; The vision vanishes-he is not there! I walk my parlor floor, And through the open door To give the boy a call; And then bethink me that he is not there! MY CHILD. I thread the crowded street; A satchelled lad I meet, With the same beaming eyes and colored hair; Follow him with my eye, I know his face is hid Under the coffin lid; Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair. O'er it in prayer I knelt; Yet my heart whispers that he is not there! I cannot make him dead! When passing by the bed So long watched over with parental care, My spirit and my eye Seek him inquiringly, Before the thought comes that he is not there! When, at the cool, gray break Of day, from sleep I wake, With my first breathing of the morning air My soul goes up, with joy, To Him who gave my boy; Then comes the sad thought that he is not there! - When at the day's calm close, Before we seek repose, I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer, MY CHILD. Whate'er I may be saying, I am in spirit praying For our boy's spirit, though-he is not there! Not there!-Where, then, is he? The form I used to see Was but the raiment that he used to wear. Upon that cast-off dress, Is but his wardrobe locked; he is not there! He lives!-In all the past He lives; nor, to the last, And, on his angel brow, I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!" Yes, we all live to God! So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, That in the spirit land, Meeting at thy right hand, 'Twill be our heaven to find that he is there! JOHN PIERPONT |