Her Grave Is by Her Mother's

Her grave is by her mother's,
Where the strawberries grow wild,
And there they 've slept for many a year,
The mother and the child.

She was the frailest of us all,
And, from her mother's breast,
We hoped, and pray'd, and trembled, more
For her, than all the rest.

So frail, alas! she could not bear
The gentle breath of Spring,
That scarce the yellow butterfly
Felt underneath its wing.

How hard we strove to save her, love
Like ours alone can tell;
And only those know what we lost,
Who 've loved the lost as well.

Some thirteen summers from her birth,
When th' reaper cuts the grain,
We laid her in the silent earth,
A flower without a stain.

We laid her by her mother,
Where the strawberries grow wild,
And there they sleep together well,
The mother and the child!