The sweat is standing on her brow,
The tear is beaming in her eye,
She doth not clasp her father now,
As in the happy days gone by.

Borne in her cradle of distress,
From morn to evening doth she lay:
Her little arms are powerless,
She hath no strength to run or play.

In vain shall those, who love her, seek
Her radiant look, her beauty's glow:
The tints have faded from her cheek,
Her mourning voice is weak and low.

Oh, could I hear that voice once more
Speak out as it was used to do;
How sweetly would those tones restore
The joys which once my spirit knew.

When Spring was in its beauty dressed,
And birds were singing in their bowers,
With joy too great to be repressed,
She played among the opening flowers.

But see, the sweat is on her brow,
The tear is beaming in her eye;
She doth not clasp her father now,
As in the happy days gone by.