Classic Poem

Ah Robin, little namesake
Of one who made his nest
Long, long, within this bosom,
When the thorn pierced thy breast,
And turned the grey to crimson,
Where didst thou seek thy rest?

As thou sat'st upon the crossbar.
Above the holy Head,
Didst thou see His Mother pale
Weep, while her dear Son bled?
And did thy mother feel thy wound,
Or was thy mother dead?

Ah Robin, seek thy namesake,
Where'er he finds his rest,
And if there be a tree o'er him,
Sing soft above his nest
For one who oft sang Robin
To sleep upon her breast!