Sleep, little baby, sleep,
Though the wind is cruel and cold,
And my shawl that I've wrapped thee in
Is old and ragged and thin;
And my hand is too frozen to hold —
Yet my bosom's still warm — so creep
Close to thy mother, and sleep!
Sleep, little baby, and rest,
Though we wander alone through the night,
And there is no food for me,
No shelter for me and thee.
Through the windows red fires shine bright,
And tables show, heaped with the best —
But there's naught for us there — so rest.
Sleep, you poor little thing!
Just as pretty and dear
As any fine lady's child.
Oh, but my heart grows wild!—
Is it worth while to stay here?
What good thing from life will spring
For you — you poor little thing?
Sleep, you poor little thing!
Mine, my treasure, my own —
I clasp you, I hold you close,
My darling, my bird, my rose!
Rich mothers have hearts like stone,
Or else some help they would bring
To you — you poor little thing!
Sleep, little baby, sleep —
If some good, rich mother would take
My dear, I would kiss thee, and then
Never come near thee again —
Not though my heart should break!
I could leave thee, dear, for thy sake —
For the river is dark and deep,
And gives sleep, little baby, sleep!