Poetry Archives

Sleep, baby mine, 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.