I to my child will be a father kind,
To wrong my child, I wrong myself you know,
I love my child too well to serve him so."
Then for her child she straight did call,
While the tears down her cheeks did fall,
And kissing of him with lips like clay,
The child did to its dying mother say:
"Mammy, what makes you kiss me so and cry?
I hope you'll be better by-and-bye."
"I hope I shall, my dear," to him she cry'd,