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Edgar Guest - A Fine Sight
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I reckon the finest sight of all
    That a man can see in this world of ours
Ain`t the works of art on the gallery wall,
    Or the red an` white o` the fust spring flowers,
Or a hoard o` gold from the yellow mines;
    But the` sight that`ll make ye want t` yell
Is t` catch a glimpse o` the fust pink signs
    In yer baby`s cheek, that she`s gittin` well.

When ye see the pink jes` a-creepin` back
    T` the pale, drawn cheek, an` ye note a smile,
Then th` cords o` yer heart that were tight, grow slack
    An` ye jump fer joy every little while,
An` ye tiptoe back to her little bed
    As though ye doubted yer eyes, or were
Afraid it was fever come back instead,
    An` ye found that th` pink still blossomed there.

Ye`ve watched fer that smile an` that bit o` bloom
    With a heavy heart fer weeks an` weeks;
An` a castle o` joy becomes that room
    When ye glimpse th` pink `in yer baby`s cheeks.
An` out o` yer breast flies a weight o` care,
    An` ye`re lifted up by some magic spell,
An` yer heart jes` naturally beats a prayer
    O` joy to the Lord `cause she`s gittin` well.
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