The rooks' nests do rock on the tree-top, Where few foes can stand; The martin's is high and is deep In the steep clift of sand; But thou, love, a-sleeping where footsteps Might come to thy bed, Hast father and mother to watch thee And shelter thy head. Lullaby, Lilybrow, lie asleep; Blest be thy rest. And some birds do keep under roofing Their young from the storm; And some wi' nest-broodings o' moss And o' wool, do lie warm. And we will look well to the house-roof That o'er thee might leak, And the beast that might beat on thy window Shall not smite thy cheek. Lullaby, Lilybrow, lie asleep; Blest be thy rest. |