The Cottager To Her Infant

The days are cold, the nights are long,
The north-wind sings a doleful song;
Then hush again upon my breast;
All merry things are now at rest,
Save thee, my pretty love!
The kitten sleeps upon the hearth;
The crickets long have ceased their mirth;
There’s nothing stirring in the house
Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse;
Then why so busy thou?
Nay! start not at that sparkling light;
‘Tis but the moon that shines so bright
On the window-pane bedropped with rain:
There, little darling! sleep again,
And wake when it is day!