BALOO, my sweet baby—the blossom! <br /> I dandle't till weary, and sigh, <br />With not a bare drop in my bosom <br /> To silence its pitiful cry. <br /> <br />The red moon above us right rarely, <br /> I lay on the brink of the burn, <br />And drank in the words which so early <br /> Have brought me to anguish and scorn. <br /> <br />And had he but thought of the trouble, <br /> And had he but thought on the pain: <br />Tho' green in the blade with the stubble, <br /> I'm fated to bleach on the plain. <br /> <br />Mid all our wooed maidens so many, <br /> The bonny bright lily was I; <br />But now plucked and tainted, like any <br /> Vile weed on the footway I lie. <br /> <br />But let anguish thus my heart rend, and <br /> The briny tear thus my cheek lave; <br />The longest lane yet has an end, and <br /> The weary sleep sound in the grave. <br /> <br />Baloo, my sweet baby—the blossom!— <br /> Ah! hush—ere his life-glass is run, <br />The false one shall find in his bosom <br /> A pang for the deed he has done.<br /><br />Joseph Skipsey<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/baloo/
