Mother's prattle, mother's kiss,
Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss,
Rites which custom does imposc,
Silver bells and baby clothes,
Coral redder than those lips
Which pale death did late eclipse,
Music framed for infant's glee,

Whistle never tuned for thee,

Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them, Loving hearts were they which gave them.

Let not one be missing, nurse,

See them laid upon the hearse
Of infant slain by doom perverse;
Why should kings and nobles have
Pictured trophies to their grave,
And we, churls, to thee deny
Thy pretty toys with thee to lie,

A more harmless vanity.

(Lamb.)

DIRGE.

|ASTED, weary, wherefore stay Wrestling thus with earth and clay? From the body pass away,

Hark, the mass is singing;

From thee doff thy mortal weed,

Mary mother be thy speed,

Saints to help thee at thy need,

Hark, the knell is ringing.

Fear not snow-drift driving fast,
Sleet, or hail, or levin blast;

Soon the shroud shall lap thee fast,
And the sleep be on thee cast
That shall ne'er know waking.

Haste thee, haste thee to be gone,
Earth flits fast and time draws on,
Gasp thy gasp and groan thy groan,
Day is near the breaking.

(Scott.)

HERE shall the lover rest,

Whom the fates sever

From his true maiden's breast,

Parted for ever?

Where through groves deep and high

Sounds the far billow,

Where early violets die,

Under the willow.

Eleu loro,

Soft shall be his pillow.

There through the summer day

Cool streams are laving,

There, while the tempests sway,

Scarce are boughs waving;

There thy rest shalt thou take,

Parted for ever,

Never again to wake,

Never, O never.

Eleu loro,

Never, O never.

(Sir Walter Scott.)

OLDIER, rest; thy warfare o'er,

Sleep the sleep that knows not break

ing,

Dream of battled fields no more,

Days of danger, nights of waking.
In our isle's enchanted hall

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,

Fairy streams of music fall,

Every sense in slumber dewing.

Soldier, rest; thy warfare o'er,

Dream of fighting fields no more,

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armour's clang, or war-steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here
Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come
At the daybreak from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum,
Booming from the sedgy shallow.

Ruder sounds shall none be near,

Guards nor warders challenge here,

Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Shouting clans or squadrons tramping.

(Scott.)