POETRY.
TO MY MOTHER.
(A Lament.)
Oh, mother dear, why hast thou gone,
And left thy Cricket all alone?
The tears flow often from my eye,
And oft, indeed, I almost cry.
Should danger chance to come to thee,
While thou are sailing on the sea,
With sorrow would our hearts be torn,
And we would be here all forlorn.
Perhaps thou may fall from the deck,
Before papa thy fall could check,
Perhaps they could not rescue thee,
And then, alas! what grief to me.
Of course papa might pull thee out,
Or else some burly sailor, stout.
Oh, dear mamma! I pray thee, strive
To keep thyself, for us alive!
And dear papa, we miss him, too,
Almost as much as we do you.
We long to see his dear old face,
And fold him in our close embrace.
And Marjorie and Donald, too,
We miss you all, but mostly you.
Oh, hurry and grow very strong,
That we may have you back ere long.