Glen Collection of printed music > Printed music > Sky-lark

THE SKY-LARK. 67
Tho' the world for this commend thee,
Tho' it smile upon the blow,
E'en its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe.
Tho' my many faults defac'd me,
Could no other arm be found,
Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound ?
And when thou would'st solace gather,
When our child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say ' Father V
Tho' his care she must forego?
When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is prest,
Think of him whose pray'r shall bless thee.
Think of him thy love had blest.
Should her lineaments resemble.
Those thou never more may'st see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble,
With a pulse yet true to me.
All my faults perchance thou know'st,
All my madness — none can know,
All my hopes— where'er thou goest,
Wither— yet with thee they go.