Page:Field Poems of Childhood.djvu/63

 Mother is rocking thy lowly bed

All night long, all night long,

Happy to smooth thy curly head,

To hold thy hand and to sing her song:

'Tis not of the hill-folk dwarfed and old,

Nor the song of thy father, stanch and bold,

And the burthen it beareth is not of gold;

But it's "Love, love! nothing but love—

Mother's love for dearie!"