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The young child Jesus had a garden,

Full of roses rare and red :
And thrice a day he watered them

To make a garland for his head.

When they were full-blown in the garden,

He called the Jewish children there; And each did pluck himself a rose,

Until they stripped the garden bare.

“ And, now, how will you make your garland,

For not a rose your path adorns ?” “But you forget,” he answered them,

“That you have left me still the thorns.”

They took the thorns and made a garland

And placed it on his shining head, And where the roses should have shown,

Were little drops of blood instead.



MOTHER birdie stiff and cold,

Puss has hushed the other's singing ; Winds go whistling o'er the wold, Empty nest in sport a-flinging:

Poor little birdies !

Faithless shepherd strayed afar,

Playful dog the gadflies catching, Wolves bound boldly o’er the bar, Not a friend the fold is watching :

Poor little lambkins !
Father into prison fell,

Mother begging through the parish;
Baby's cot they too will sell,-
Who will now feed, clothe, and cherish ?

Poor little children !

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