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, little babe, come, silly soul, Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief, Born as I doubt to all our dole, And to thyself unhappy chief: Sing lullaby and lap it warm, Poor soul that thinks no creature harm.

Thou little thinkst, and less dost know The cause of this thy mother's moan; Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe, And I myself am all alone; Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail, And know'st not yet what thou dost ail?

Come, little wretch! Ah! silly heart, Mine only joy, what can I more? If there be any wrong thy smart. That may the destinies implore, 'Twas I, I say, against my will— I wail the time, but be thou still.

And dost thou smile? O thy sweet face! Would God Himself He might thee see! No doubt thou wouldst soon purchase grace, I know right well, for thee and me, But come to mother, babe, and play, For father false is fled away.

Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance Thy father home again to send, If Death do strike me with his lance Yet may'st thou me to him commend: If any ask thy mother's name, Tell how by love she purchased blame.