Was the clear draught it gave;
E'en way-worn age took heart and bowed,
Its aching brow to lave.

But where is now our pleasant rill,
We miss it from our side;
We looked, and it was at its full--
We turned, and it was dried.

Oh Father.--thou whose gracious hand
Bestowed the boon at first,
A parched and desert land is this--
Let not thy servants thirst!

Fountains of joy at thy right hand
Are gushing evermore--
Bid them for us, thy fainting ones,
Their rich abundance pour.


FANNY.

We miss thee on the threshold wide.
Smiling little Fanny!
Thine offered hand was wont to guide
Our footsteps to thy mother's side,
Ready little Fanny!

We miss the welcome of thy face,
Winning little Fanny!