Sleep, my child; to-morrow, waking, To thee shall come no sad heart-aching; One is near the ne'er-forsaking! Mother watcheth o'er thee. LISA. It makes the tears come into your eyes; does your mother sing it to you? EDITH. O, no, my mother never sings to me. I sleep all alone, in a great, silent room, and they draw the heavy curtains all around, so that not even a star can peep in.