Glen Collection of printed music > Printed text > Harp of Renfrewshire

3Jn ^fttiortam.
The summer's air, floating o'er beds of flowers,
Enters the silent room,
Where a pale mother, counting the lone hours,
Waits her boy-infant's doom.
As he lies, like a snow-drop on a snowy bed,
In his pale loveliness, while, overhead.
Looking, unseen, on the dying child, are God's good angels.
Very pale are the poor boy's pale cheeks now.
Paler than his pale mother's ;
Where now, child of God, is the ruddy glow
That rivalled your rosy brother's?
The blush of beauty has begun to fade —
The rose droops that God's own fingers made,
To be gathered soon, with loving care, by God's good angels.
Moisten his lips — soft let his young head lie ;
As you hold his little hand,
Ask him, fond mother, will your poor boy die.
And go to the other land :
Those lips will never speak, but the dark, bright eye,
Beneath the long fringed eye-lids, will reply —
" Mother, your boy is waiting for God's good angels."