A LAMENT.
ANOTHER year has sped,
A year of pain and dread,
And yet no tidings from my absent one;
None yet has come to me
Across the moaning sea;
No word, alas, from him, my wandering son.
A year of pain and dread,
And yet no tidings from my absent one;
None yet has come to me
Across the moaning sea;
No word, alas, from him, my wandering son.
To celebrate his birth
To-day no joy, no mirth;
His name no one will think but me to call,
Or wonder why I sigh
When merry ones are nigh;
They think this day should pleasure bring to all.
To-day no joy, no mirth;
His name no one will think but me to call,
Or wonder why I sigh
When merry ones are nigh;
They think this day should pleasure bring to all.
How sweet were then my dreams;
But yesterday it seems
Since first his head was pillowed on my breast;
O then I breathed a prayer
Upon his forehead fair,
And thought no head was ever half so blest.
But yesterday it seems
Since first his head was pillowed on my breast;
O then I breathed a prayer
Upon his forehead fair,
And thought no head was ever half so blest.
Each ruddy lad I see,
I think it may be he,
I think it may be he,
