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 A baby was sleeping,
 Its mother was weeping.  
 A baby was sleeping,
 Its mother was weeping. 
 When the baby dies,
 On every side
  Rose stranger's voices, hard and harsh and loud.
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 When the baby dies,
 On every side
  Rose stranger's voices, hard and harsh and loud.
   The baby was not wrapped in any shroud.
    The mother made no sound. Her head was bowed
     That men's eyes might not see
      Her misery. 
 O child! O new-born denizen
 Of life's great city! on thy head
  The glory of morn is read more 
 O child! O new-born denizen
 Of life's great city! on thy head
  The glory of morn is shed,
   Like a celestial benison!
    Here at the portal thou dost stand,
     And with thy little hand
      Thou openest the mysterious gate
       Into the future's undiscovered land. 
 Suck, baby! suck! mother's love grows by giving:
 Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by wasting!
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 Suck, baby! suck! mother's love grows by giving:
 Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by wasting!
  Black manhood comes when riotous guilty living
   Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting. 
 A tight little bundle of wailing and flannel,
 Perplex'd with the newly found fardel of life.  
 A tight little bundle of wailing and flannel,
 Perplex'd with the newly found fardel of life. 
 Sweet is the infant's waking smile,
 And sweet the old man's rest--
  But middle age by no read more 
 Sweet is the infant's waking smile,
 And sweet the old man's rest--
  But middle age by no fond wile,
   No soothing calm is blest. 
 How lovely he appears! his little cheeks
 In their pure incarnation, vying with
  The rose leaves strewn read more 
 How lovely he appears! his little cheeks
 In their pure incarnation, vying with
  The rose leaves strewn beneath them.
   And his lips, too,
    How beautifully parted! No; you shall not
     Kiss him; at least not now; he will wake soon--
      His hour of midday rest is nearly over. 
 There came to port last Sunday night
 The queerest little craft,
  Without an inch of rigging on;
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 There came to port last Sunday night
 The queerest little craft,
  Without an inch of rigging on;
   I looked and looked--and laughed.
    It seemed so curious that she
     Should cross the unknown water,
      And moor herself within my room--
       My daughter! O my daughter! 
 Rock-bye-baby on the tree top,
 When the wind blows the cradle will rock.
  When the bough bends read more 
 Rock-bye-baby on the tree top,
 When the wind blows the cradle will rock.
  When the bough bends the cradle will fall,
   Down comes the baby, cradle and all.