Father, Wake

'Father, wake — the storm is loud,
The rain is falling fast;
Let me go to my mother's grave,
And screen it from the blast:
She cannot sleep, she will not rest,
The wind is roaring so;
We prayed that she might lie in peace —
My father, let us go.'

'Thy mother sleeps too firm a sleep
To heed the wind that blows;
There are angel-charms that hush the noise
From reaching her repose.
Her spirit in dreams of the blessed Land
Is sitting at Jesu's feet;
Child, nestle thee in mine arms and pray
Our rest may be as sweet.'