A superstition of great beauty prevails in Ireland, that when a child smiles in its sleep it is ‘talking with angels.’—Lover.
A baby was sleeping,
Its mother was weeping,
For her husband was far on the wild raging sea;
And the tempest was swelling
Round the fisherman’s dwelling,
And she cried, “Dermot, darling, oh come back to me!”
Her beads while she numbered,
The baby still slumbered,
And smiled in her face as she bended her knee: