John Ireland — The Only Child

Crying, my little one, footsore and weary? Fall asleep, pretty one, warm on my shoulder: I must tramp on through the winter night dreary While the snow falls on me, colder and colder You are my one, and I have not another; Sleep soft, my darling, my trouble and treasure; Sleep warm and soft, in the arms of your mother Dreaming of pretty things, dreaming of pleasure