Tender mothers rue;
Sleep, my angel, stilly, sweetly,
Bai-oosh-kie-baiou.
Ah, the bitter grief, the sorrow,
Comfortless to wait!
Each morn praying for the morrow,
All night guess thy fate.
I shall dream thy days are wasted,
Pining fond and true—
Sleep—cares all as yet untasted—