130 SONGS FOR THE

See, here are stitches straggling wide,
And others stretching down so far,
I’m very sure you have not tried
In this, at least, to please mamma.

The little girl who will not sew,
_ Must neither be allowed to play ;
And now I hope, my love, that you
Will take more pains another day.

 

MY FATHER BLESSED ME
My father raised his trembling hand,
And laid it on my head ;
“ God bless thee, O my son, my son ¥
Most tenderly he said.

He died, and left no gems of gold:
But still I was his heir ;

For that rich blessing which he gave
Became a fortune rare.

Still, in my weary hours of toil
To earn my daily bread,

It gladdens me in thought to feel
His hand upon my head.

Though infant tongues to me have said,
“Dear father,” oft since then,

Yet when I bring that scene to mind,

I’m but a child again.