Dreaming, I see a mother weep.
Mother, he’ll be your baby still,
Let the changes bring whate’er they will;
When the coming years silver your hair,
You will dream of your baby fair;
Other sorrows your heart may fill—
He’ll be your darling baby still.
Tho’ he may lie in the churchyard cold,
In your dreams he’ll never grow old;
In your slumbers you’ll kiss his brow,