MY little boy, thy laughter
Goes to my bosom core,
And sends me yearning after
The days that are no more.

Adown my cheek is stealing
A briny tear, and I—
But let no selfish feeling
Thy infant mirth destroy.

Fill not with looks so earnest,
Those pretty eyes of thine;
A lot were thine the sternest,
Couldst thou my thought divine.

There's time enough for sorrow,
When Life's pale eve draws near;
The lark lilts thee Good Morrow
Ring out thy laughter clear!