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Ballads and Lyrics of Socialism 1883-1908 . Nesbit, E. (Edith), 1858–1924.
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page: 33

II

  • Sleep, little baby, sleep,
  • Though the wind is cruel and cold,
  • And my shawl that I’ve wrapped thee in
  • Is old and ragged and thin;
  • And my hand is too frozen to hold—
  • Yet my bosom’s still warm—so creep
  • Close to thy mother, and sleep!
  • Sleep, little baby, and rest,
  • Though we wander alone through the night,
  • And there is no food for me,
  • No shelter for me and thee.
  • Through the windows red fires shine bright,
  • And tables show, heaped with the best—
  • But there’s naught for us there—so rest.
  • Sleep, you poor little thing!
  • Just as pretty and dear
  • As any fine lady’s child.
  • Oh, but my heart grows wild!—
  • Is it worth while to stay here?
  • What good thing from life will spring
  • For you—you poor little thing?
  • Sleep, you poor little thing!
  • Mine, my treasure, my own—
  • I clasp you, I hold you close,
  • My darling, my bird, my rose!
  • Rich mothers have hearts like stone,
  • Or else some help they would bring
  • To you— you poor little thing?
  • Sleep, little baby, sleep—
  • If some good, rich mother would take
  • My dear, I would kiss thee, and then
  • Never come near thee again—
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  • Not though my heart should break!
  • I could leave thee, dear, for thy sake—
  • For the river is dark and deep,
  • And gives sleep, little baby, sleep!
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