The high steeple-top in the sunshine doth show,
The tall church spire to the heath is plain;
But far from God’s house I must still remain!
I’d pray, but no prayer at all do I know,
And never to school in my life did I go.
My mother would thither have sent me fain,
But ah! long, long in the grave has she lain.
Pray thou to good God, my dovelet, go—
Come after church thy kiss to bestow—
Thy prayerful sweet lips I’ll devour again,