My gentle Malcolm’s joy and pride.
Though poverty was in our cot,
Love dwelt there, and we fear’d her not.
But sickness came—our daily toil
Alone had fed life’s lamp with oil.
O’er my poor Malcolm’s feverish bed
I watch’d all night, then sleepless sped
To labor for our wants. Oh! why
Did Heaven forbid us both to die?
The sleepless night, the scant repast,