Sweet’s the sleep when virtue slumbers
On a fond, fond, mother’s breast;
When her lullaby’s soft numbers
Soothe the innocent to rest.

Though I feel not thy embraces,
Sleep has not effaced thy smiles;
No! I mark the dimpled traces
Of a thousand artless wiles.

When awake, each nameless action
Leaves a something to admire—
Binds the chain of fond affection
Round the mother, babe, and sire.

Sleep, my boy! thou art protected—
In a mother’s arms thou’rt borne;
Not like sorrow’s child neglected,
Nor like sorrow’s child forlorn.

Shielded from the blast of danger,
Sleep the sleep that knows no guile;
May the Nursling of a Manger
Consecrate thy infant smile!

As thy years advance in numbers,
May thy spirit grow in grace,
Till age hails the peaceful slumbers
Of Creation’s resting-place.

William McComb, The Po­et­ic­al Works of
William M’Comb, 1864