In niches, crypts and naves;—
My heavy heart was sagging with its woe,
Nor Hope to prop it up, nor Promise, nor
One woman’s hands—and O I wanted so
To be felt sorry for!
BIRDY! BIRDY!
The Redbreast loves the blooming bough—
The Bluebird loves it same as he;—
And as they sit and sing there now,
So do I sing to thee—