For want of good keeping;
Oh! I fear my poor baby will die!
—which may have been composed to fit in with some particular story, as was the tearful little song occurring in the ballad of Childe Waters:
She said: Lullabye, mine own dear child,
Lullabye, my child so dear;
I would thy father were a king,
Thy mother laid on a bier.
One feels glad that that story ends happily in a "churching and bridal" that take place upon the same day.
I have the copy of a lullaby for a sick child, written down from memory by Signor Lerda, of Turin, who reports it to be popular in Tuscany: