Page:Lyrical ballads, Volume 1, Wordsworth, 1800.djvu/200

148 Then do not fear, my boy! for thee

Bold as a lion I will be;

And I will always be thy guide,

Through hollow snows and rivers wide.

I'll build an Indian bower; I know

The leaves that make the softest bed:

And if from me thou wilt not go,

But still be true 'till I am dead,

My pretty thing! then thou shalt sing,

As merry as the birds in spring.

Thy father cares not for my breast,

'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest:

'Tis all thine own! and if its hue

Be changed, that was so fair to view,

'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove!

My beauty, little child, is flown;

But thou wilt live with me in love,

And what if my poor cheek be brown?

'Tis well for me, thou canst not see

How pale and wan it else would be.