“Come near, my child!” the dying father said.
Life's twilight dews lay heavy on his brow.
How softly o'er him did that daughter bow!
She wiped those dews away, she raised his drooping head.
He looked upon her with a long long look,
Thinking of all her winning little ways,
His only gladness from her infant days,
Since God from them away the wife and mother took.
Oft to the moorland places he his child
Led by the hand, or bore upon his back.
The curlew's nest he showed her in their track,