THE BABY-FARMER'S LULLABY.

Tuapeka Times, Volume III, Issue 211, 15 February 1872, Page 7

THE BABY-FARMER'S LULLABY.

This was the rhyme she droned As she rooked in a rickety chair, In a whitewashed room with bare deal floor, With papered windows and wide-cracked door, And ceiling as foul as the air : " A spoonful of sleeping stuff For hushing 'em when they cry : There's little ones more than enough, „, And if they don't live they'll die.'.* Four babies tucked in a crib, Two asleep in a chair, Three moie crawling the planks about, Two would be burnt, but the fire is out ; And still there's a cradle to spare. Some look weary and pale, Some look meagre and thin ; Some seem hectic and fever-torn : »

LAll had been better if never born ; Their sharp bones stare through the skin. For their mother's bosom —rags ; For its nestling softness -straw ; For the loving kisses that dimples rain— A bottle, a spoon, the mixture, and pain : A shake of a she-fiend's claw. Ay, a spoon and a cup on the hob, A saucepan of gruel grey, A phial on the shelf with its potion grim — The little ones' prayers and their evening hymn, For the little time here they stay. For often at morn and night, From want of a mother's care, Grim Death — no, gentle — with bony breast, Hushes them off to a happier rest, Their cradle a deal shell bare.