THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT

The days are cold, the nights are long,

The north-wind sings a doleful song;

Then hush again upon my breast;

All merry things are now at rest,

Save thee, my pretty Love!

The kitten sleeps upon the hearth,

The crickets long have ceased their mirth;

There's nothing stirring in the house

Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse,

Then why so busy thou?

Nay! start not at that sparkling light;

‘ Tis but the moon that shines so bright

On the window pane bedropped with rain:

Then, little Darling! sleep again,

And wake when it is day.