My own little darling—dead!
The dove of my happiness fled!
Just Heaven, forgive,
But let me not live,
Now my poor babe is dead!

No more to my yearning breast
Shall that sweet mouth be prest;
No more on my arm,
Nestled up warm,
Shall my fair darling rest:

Alas, for that dear glazed eye!
Why did it dim or die?
Those lips so soft
I have kissed so oft,
Why are they ice, oh why?

Alas, little frocks and toys,
Shadows of bygone joys,
Have I not treasure
Of bitterest pleasure
In these little frocks and toys?

O, harrowing sight! to behold
That marble-like face all cold,
That small cherish'd form
Flung to the worm,
Deep in the charnel-mould!

Where is each heart-winning way.
Thy prattle, and innocent play?
Alas, they are gone,
And left me alone,
To weep for them night and day!

Yet why should I linger behind?
Kill me too! Death most kind,
Where can I go
To meet thy blow,
And my sweet babe to find?

I know it, I rave half wild!
But who can be calm and mild
When the deep heart
Is riven apart
Over a dear dead child!

I know it, I should not speak
So boldly; I ought to be meek:
But love it is strong,
And my spirit is stung,
Lying all numb'd and weak.