  Kitty is playing on the side of the hill, All in the new-mown grass, Hunting a butterfly; O, don’t you kill That beautiful thing, alas! She caught it and wounded its wings! “How cruel of kitty to play in this way;” Your friend on top of the hill, If she were alive, now surely would say, Alas, that her voice should be still! That prattled of beautiful things. In her grave on the hill the little one lies; Her kitten at play in the hay; And looking thereon a mother’s heart cries, With grief she is pining away, Like the butterfly’s sunder-torn wings. |
|
