Collecting small babies, once they have died,
From satin lined coffins in which they have lied.
He holds them and cradles, a babe in each arm,
And loves these small angels and keeps them from harm.
He feels such a duty to gather and keep,
These babies in shadow of night as they sleep.
For why would their parents leave them alone,
To lie in cold coffins or cribs made of stone.
He takes them away to the crèche he's prepared,
And tucks them in tight in case they get scared.
He sings them sweet lullaby's and rocks cradles all night,
But his prayers do not comfort his unending plight.
He fulfils his duties with honour and pride,
And he reads the good book by which he'll abide,
And he doesn't know why his prayers are denied,
He can't understand that these babies have died.
And far on the hill top, where nobody goes,
Lives the old man whom nobody knows,
And behind the old walls of the dark and old hall,
Lay hundreds of babies not breathing at all.
Dead in their cots and cold to the touch,
No one has ever loved babies this much,
And each night the towns folk all feel the chill,
From the cries of dead babies from up on the hill.
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