When the long day leans to the twilight,
When the Evening star climbs to the moon,
With a heart that is silently breaking,
I sit in the gloaming and croon.
I croon a low song for my darling,
My wee one, my baby, my own;
Who, cradled in rosewood and velvet,
Sleeps out in the churchyard alone.
Alone with no arms to enfold her,
Alone with no pillowing breast,
Alone with no hand on her cradle,
To rock her to soundlier rest.
But each day in the hush of the twilight,
Is silenced my broken heart's cry;
And I sit where I sat with my darling,
And sing her the old lullaby.
Oh! the dreams that come back to me mocking,
The sorrow that makes the days long;
As I sit in the twilight there rocking,
And singing that lullaby song.
But I think my wee darling rests better
As the night shadows lengthen, and creep
Across her low bed, in the churchyard,
If her mother's voice sings her to sleep.
And so with a heart that is breaking
I sing the old 'Lullaby dear'
That hushed her so oft into slumber—
O baby—my own—do you hear?