A Fine Sight

I reckon the finest sight of all

That a man can see in this world of ours

Ai n't the works of art on the gallery wall,

Or the red an’ white o’ the fust spring flowers,

Or a hoard o’ gold from the yellow mines;

But the’ sight that'll make ye want t’ yell

Is t’ catch a glimpse o’ the fust pink signs

In yer baby's cheek, that she's gittin’ well.

When ye see the pink jes’ a-creepin’ back

T’ the pale, drawn cheek, an’ ye note a smile,

Then th’ cords o’ yer heart that were tight, grow slack

An’ ye jump fer joy every little while,

An’ ye tiptoe back to her little bed

As though ye doubted yer eyes, or were

Afraid it was fever come back instead,

An’ ye found that th’ pink still blossomed there.

Ye've watched fer that smile an’ that bit o’ bloom

With a heavy heart fer weeks an’ weeks;

An’ a castle o’ joy becomes that room

When ye glimpse th’ pink‘ in yer baby's cheeks.

An’ out o’ yer breast flies a weight o’ care,

An’ ye're lifted up by some magic spell,

An’ yer heart jes’ naturally beats a prayer

O’ joy to the Lord‘ cause she's gittin’ well.