"Rock a bye, babies,
Your cradle hangs high;
Soft down your pillow,
Your curtain the sky.
Father will feed you,
While mother will sing,
And shelter our darlings
With her warm wing."
by Harriet Monroe
They died these two &mdash
The little boys I knew &mdash
One at Gallipoli and one in France.
Long ago &mdash
Oh, twenty years or so &mdash
They used to romp and dance