A. G. C.
Dear child, ’twas vain for me to pray
That storms might never cloud thy skies,
Or that the tears of anguish may
Ne’er dim thy bonnie eyes.
For never mortal yet but knew
The weight of sorrow’s crushing thrall,
Joy cometh to a chosen few,
But sorrow comes to all.
Yet from my heart this prayer goes up,
When Sorrow’s draught your lips must meet,
May Love and Friendship kiss the cup
And make the bitter sweet.