There's my nameless bairn laughing at her knee.

When the bracken-harvest's gathered and the frost is on the loam
When the dream goes out in silence and the ebb runs out in foam,
Mary, Mary Shepherdess, she leads the lost lambs home.

If I had a little maid to turn my tears away,
If I had a little lad to lead me when I'm gray,
All to Mary Shepherdess they'd fold their hands and pray.

THE LITTLE GHOST: KATHERINE TYNAN

The stars began to peep
Gone was the bitter day,
She heard the milky ewes
Bleat to their lambs astray.
Her heart cried for her lamb
Lapped cold in the churchyard sod,
She could not think on the happy children
At play with the Lamb of God.

She heard the calling ewes
And the lambs answer alas!
She heard her heart's blood drip in the night,
As the ewes' milk on the grass.
Her tears that burnt like fire
So bitter and slow ran down
She could not think on the new-washed children
Playing by Mary's gown.

Oh, who is this comes in
Over her threshold stone?
And why is the old dog wild with joy
Who all day long made moan?
This fair little radiant ghost,
Her one little son of seven,
New 'scaped from the band of merry children
In the nurseries of Heaven.

He was all clad in white
Without a speck or stain;
His curls had a ring of light,
That rose and fell again.
"Now come with me, my own mother,
And you shall have great ease,
For you shall see the lost children
Gathered at Mary's knees."

Oh, lightly sprang she up
Nor waked her sleeping man,
And hand in hand with the little ghost
Through the dark night she ran.
She is gone swift as a fawn,
As a bird homes to its nest,
She has seen them lie, the sleepy children,
'Twixt Mary's arm and breast.

At morning she came back;
Her eyes were strange to see.
She will not fear the long journey,
However long it be.
As she goes in and out
She sings unto hersel';
For she has seen the mother's children
And knows that it is well.

TWO BROTHERS: THEODOSIA GARRISON

The dead son's mother sat and wept
And her live son plucked at her gown,
"Oh, mother, long is the watch we've kept!"
But she beat the small hands down.

The little live son he clung to her knee--
And frightened his eyes and dim--
"Have ye never, my mother, a word for me?"
But she turned her face from him,

Saying, "Oh and alack, mine own dead son,
Could I know but the path aright,
How fast and how fast my feet would run