Sleep, baby mine. The failing light is low,
The witch-elms toss their branches to and fro;
And howling winds sing baby's lullaby.
Move, shadows move, and grey frost-clouds go by,
My baby sleeps, whatever winds may blow.
Sleep, baby mine; while he, who loves us so,
Is daring all the bitter, drifting snow
Across the moorlands where the great winds cry.
Sleep, baby mine!
Within--The crackling wide-fire's ruddy glow
Warms each wee hand, and curlèd roseleaf toe.
Without--The blinding, biting storm mounts high,
And barbèd snowflakes scatter down the sky.
God send thy father ere the darkness grow!
Sleep, baby mine!
