 | English melodies |  |
113
THE FATHERLESS HOME.
Oh! a fatherless home hath got much to endure,
The mother toils hard—but her pittance is poor;
She sits by the bed where her little ones rest,
And she sews through the night with the tears on her breast:
Those features, once lovely, grow wasted and wild;
Oh! sad is the home of the fatherless child!
The mother toils hard—but her pittance is poor;
She sits by the bed where her little ones rest,
And she sews through the night with the tears on her breast:
Those features, once lovely, grow wasted and wild;
Oh! sad is the home of the fatherless child!
Through the thin, tatter'd curtains the dawn makes its way,
And she thinks of the bread that is left for the day;
She starts when how small seems the remnant to share—
Oh! for them it is hard—for herself she can bear:
Not a friend hath been near of the many that smil'd,
Oh! sad is the home of the fatherless child!
And she thinks of the bread that is left for the day;
She starts when how small seems the remnant to share—
Oh! for them it is hard—for herself she can bear:
Not a friend hath been near of the many that smil'd,
Oh! sad is the home of the fatherless child!
114
She builds for the future—she reads but that page
When her boys shall be men, and will help her old age;
When her fears and privations at last will be o'er,
And for all she has suffer'd they'll love her the more;
Oh! angel of bliss! make the widow's hope sure,
Oh! soften the lot of the fatherless poor.
When her boys shall be men, and will help her old age;
When her fears and privations at last will be o'er,
And for all she has suffer'd they'll love her the more;
Oh! angel of bliss! make the widow's hope sure,
Oh! soften the lot of the fatherless poor.
| English melodies | |