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Baby Sitter

 From torrid heat to frigid cold
 I've rovered land and sea;
And now, with halting heart I hold
 My grandchild on my knee:
Yet while I've eighty years all told,
 Of moons she has but three.
She sleeps, that fragile miniature Of future maidenhood; She will be wonderful, I'm sure, As over her I brood; She is so innocent, so pure, I know she will be good.
My way I've won from woe to weal, And hard has been the fight; Yet in my ingle-nook I feel A wondrous peace to-night; And over me serenely steal Warm waves of love and light.
"What sloppy stuff!" I hear you say.
"Give us a lusty song.
" Alas! I'm bent and gnarled and grey,-- My life may not be long: Yet let its crown of glory be This child upon me knee.

Poem by Robert William Service
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