the sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head,

the cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest.

perhaps a mother's anguish adds its woe;

the yful pair crowd fondly by thy side;

ah! helpless nurslings, who will now provide

that life a mother only can bestow!

oft as by winding nith i, musing, wait

the sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn,

i'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewywn,

and curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.