A little one she fondly pressed,
Sleeping in blessed unconsciousness,
Rocked by the throbbings of her breast.
For when the work of death was rife,
’Midst savage yell and dying prayer,
She fearless sought the thickest strife,
And found that little slumberer there.
Trembling beneath a shed she crept—
The babe still hushed upon her bosom—
Restrained each bursting throb, nor wept,