Graham's magazine . THE O K. F H A N BALLAD SINGERS. 297 con espress. She was our mothers favorite chilld, Who loved her for her eyes of blue,And she is delicate and mild, She cannot do what I can never met her fathers eyes, Although they were so like her own £In some far distant sea he lies, A father to his child nnknown. The first time that she lisped his name, A little playful thing was she;How proud we were,—yet that night came The tale how he had sunk at mother never raised her head; How strange how white how cold she grew!It was a broken heart they said— I wish our hearts w
Graham's magazine . THE O K. F H A N BALLAD SINGERS. 297 con espress. She was our mothers favorite chilld, Who loved her for her eyes of blue,And she is delicate and mild, She cannot do what I can never met her fathers eyes, Although they were so like her own £In some far distant sea he lies, A father to his child nnknown. The first time that she lisped his name, A little playful thing was she;How proud we were,—yet that night came The tale how he had sunk at mother never raised her head; How strange how white how cold she grew!It was a broken heart they said— I wish our hearts were broken too. We have no home—we have no friends They said our home no more was ours—Our cottage where the ash-tree bends, The garden we had filled with sounding shells our lather brought, That we might hear the sea at home;Our bees, that in the summer wrought The winters golden wandered forth mid wind and rain, No shelter from the open sky;I only wish to see again My mothers grave and rest and die,Alas, it is a weary thing To si
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Keywords: ., boo, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1840, booksubjectliteraturemodern
