‘What ills my babe must undergo!
‘What sickness, and what days of pain,
‘What chances too, must thou sustain?
‘How can I hope my child to save,
‘When thousands meet an early grave?
‘And must—ah must these busy fears
‘Still grow with thy encreasing years?
‘Must they my bosom still annoy,
‘And mingle with a mother’s joy?
‘Secure in the Almighty hand,