Bye-baby-bunting


BYE-BABY-BUNTING,

The Indians live by hunting,

And bring home many a beaver-skin

To wrap the little pappoose in.

And mother-squaw the baby'll tie

Fast on a board, and swinging high,

Will hang it up among the trees

To rock-a-bye with every breeze;

But our dear baby, snug and warm,

Shall rock-a-bye on mother's arm.



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