“My wee little lassie, my darling,”
Said I, putting back her soft hair,
“I want you, my dear little maiden,
To smooth away all mother’s care.
“Who is it, when pa comes home weary,
That runs for his slippers and gown?
What eyes does he watch for at morning,
Looking out from their lashes of brown?
“And can you do nothing, my darling,
What was it that pa said last night?