What has the little man for thee,
My precious babe who slumb'rest there?
He brings, sweet one, a gift from me,
A mother's love, a mother's care,—
A mother's care that shall not wane,
While hands can toil or brain can think,
Until that day shall come again
When thou shalt cross life's brink.
Sleep, softly sleep, my pretty one;
I hear the neighing of the steeds,—