As you look down on the babies dear,
And see their woes and their crying hear,
As fed with the food for babies not made,
The cheeks grow pale, and the bright hopes fade,—
Does your heart cry out, “Not so! Not so
Must the babe be fed to be strong and grow:
Milk, precious milk, is the wee one’s food,
To strengthen the bones and nourish the blood!”
