A Fisherman's Baby

A long, low waste of yellow sand
Lay shining northward far as eye could reach,
Southward a rocky bluff rose high
Broken in wild, fantastic shapes.
Near by, one jagged rock towered high,
And o'er the waters leaned, like giant grim,
Striving to peer into the mysteries
The ocean whispers of continually,
And covers with her soft, treacherous face.
For the rest, the sun was sinking low
Like a great golden globe, into the sea;
Above the rock a bird was flying
In dizzy circles, with shrill cries,
And on a plank floated from some wreck,
With shreds of musty seaweed
Clinging to it yet, a woman sat
Holding a child within her arms;
A sweet-faced woman - looking out to sea
With dark, patient eyes, and singing to the child,
And this the song she in the sunse...

When the long day leans to the twilight,
    When the Evening star climbs to the moon,
With a heart that is silently breaking,
    I sit in the gloaming and croon.
I croon a low song for my darling,
    My wee one, my baby, my own;
Who, cradled in rosewood and velvet,
    Sleeps out in the churchyard alone.

Alone with no arms to enfold her,
    Alone with no pillowing breast,
Alone with no hand on her cradle,
    To rock her to soundlier rest.
But each day in the hush of the twilight,
    Is silenced my broken heart's cry;
And I sit where I sat with my darling,
    And sing her the old lullaby.

Oh! the dreams that come back to me mocking,
    The sorrow that makes the days long;
As I sit in the twilight there rocking,
    And singing...

The wind is out in its rage to-night,
And your father is far at sea.
The rime on the window is hard and white
But dear, you are near to me.
Heave ho, weave low,
Waves of the briny deep;
Seethe low and breathe low,
But sleep you, my little one, sleep, sleep.

The little boat rocks in the cove no more,
But the flying sea-gulls wail;
I peer through the darkness that wraps the shore,
For sight of a home set sail.
Heave ho, weave low,
Waves of the briny deep;
Seethe low and breathe low,
But sleep you, my little one, sleep, sleep.

Ay, lad of mine, thy father may die
In the gale that rides the sea,
But we'll not believe it, not you and I,
Who mind us of Galilee.
Heave ho, weave low,
Waves of the briny deep;
Seethe low and brea...

When from our mortal vision
    Grown men and women go
To sail strange fields Elysian
    And know what spirits know,
I think of them as tourists,
    In some sun-gilded clime,
'Mong happy sights and dear delights
    We all shall find, in time.

But when a child goes yonder
    And leaves its mother here,
Its little feet must wander,
    It seems to me, in fear.
What paths of Eden beauty,
    What scenes of peace and rest,
Can bring content to one who went
    Forth from a mother's breast?

In palace gardens, lonely,
    A little child will roam
And weep for pleasures only
    Found in its humble home.
It is not won by splendour,
    Nor bought by costly toys;
To hide from harm on mother's arm
    Makes all its sum...

To-day I was so weary and I lay
    In that delicious state of semi-waking,
When baby, sitting with his nurse at play,
    Cried loud for "mamma," all his toys forsaking.

I was so weary and I needed rest,
    And signed to nurse to bear him from the room.
Then, sudden, rose and caught him to my breast,
    And kissed the grieving mouth and cheeks of bloom.

For swift as lightning came the thought to me,
    With pulsing heart-throes and a mist of tears,
Of days inevitable, that are to be,
    If my fair darling grows to manhood's years;

Days when he will not call for "mamma," when
    The world with many a pleasure and bright joy,
Shall tempt him forth into the haunts of men
    And I shall lose the first place with my boy;

When other ho...

To-day I was so weary and I lay
    In that delicious state of semi-waking,
When baby, sitting with his nurse at play,
    Cried loud for "mamma," all his toys forsaking.

I was so weary and I needed rest,
    And signed to nurse to bear him from the room.
Then, sudden, rose and caught him to my breast,
    And kissed the grieving mouth and cheeks of bloom.

For swift as lightning came the thought to me,
    With pulsing heart-throes and a mist of tears,
Of days inevitable, that are to be,
    If my fair darling grows to manhood's years;

Days when he will not call for "mamma," when
    The world, with many a pleasure and bright joy,
Shall tempt him forth into the haunts of men
    And I shall lose the first place with my boy;

When other h...