The Mourner

The night that wee Francesca died The little night wind sighed and sighed. Chill and dew-laden it crept in. Beneath her tiny hands, so thin, I laid some little friendly flowers That saw her laugh in sunshine hours. She loved those pansy faces best, Wise-eyed they went with her to rest. The trees looked very dark and old, The stars gleamed so far off and cold. Only the little night wind sighed The night that wee Francesca died.