We live by trifles only.




SOMEBODY'S BABY'S DEAD.

A hearse all draped in mourning,
With white plumes overhead,
Bearing a little coffin--
Somebody's baby's dead.

Upon the velvet cover
Some hand has placed a wreath,
White as the waxen features
Of the baby that lies beneath.

Out in the graveyard making
A rest for a shining head,
Somebody's heart is breaking,
Somebody's baby's dead.

Over a baby's coffin,
Heaping a mound of clay,
Somebody's hopes are buried
In that little grave to-day.

Somebody's home is dreary,
Somebody's sunshine fled,
Somebody's sad and weary,