Page:Poems Tynan.djvu/73

And here are red roses,
 And grapes from the vine,
And a lamb trotting softly,
 Thy playfellow fine.

Now smile, little Jesus,
 Whom naught can defile;
All gifts will I give Thee
 An thou wilt but smile.

But it 's lullaby, my Baby!
 And mournful am I,
Thou cherished little Jesus,
 That still Thou wilt cry.

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