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Then do not fear, my boy! for thee Bold as a lion I will be ; And I will always be thy guide, Through hollow snows and rivers wide. I'll build an Indian bower ; I know The leaves that make the softest bed : And if from me thou wilt not go, But still be true 'till I am dead, My pretty thing! then thou shalt sing, As merry as the birds in spring.
Thy father cares not for my breast, 'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest : 'Tis all thine own! and if its hue Be changed, that was so fair to view, 'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove ! My beauty, little child, is flown; But thou wilt live with me in love, And what if my poor cheek be brown? 'Tis well for me, thou canst not see How pale and wan it else would be.
Dread not their taunts, my little life !
I'll teaah my boy the sweetest things ; I'll teach him how the owlet sings. My little babe! thy lips are still, And thou hast almost suck'd thy fill. - Where art thou gone my own dear child? What wicked looks are those I see? Alas! alas ! that look so wild, It never, never came from me: If thou art mad, my pretty lad, Then I must be for ever sad..
Oh! smile on me, my little lamb !