THE LITTLE SHROUD.
She put him on a snow-white shroud,
A chaplet on his head;
And gather'd early primroses
To scatter o'er the dead.
She laid him in his little grave—
'Twas hard to lay him there,
When spring was putting forth its flowers,
And every thing was fair.
She had lost many children—now
The last of them was gone;
And day and night she sat and wept
Beside the funeral stone.
