Stephen Foster, 1861
Our Willie, dear, is dying, love,|
And thou art far away;
His little breath is sighing, love,
And cannot last till day.
To night while sitting by his side
I heard him speak of thee
|: My father's coming home, he said,
With presents bright for me. :|
Come with an eagle's flight,
Come like a beam of light,
Come, love, come home tonight;
Our Willie dear is dying.
2. His blooming checks have faded, love,|
The light has left his brow;
His eyes are dim'd and shaded, love,
You would not know him now.
And when the fever rages,
With a sad and restless moan,
|: His feeble voice then warns us
There is death with in that tone. :|
3. No grief that e'er befell me, love,
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