Well, go to France, poor little child! yes, go. My love for thee is worthless: I am poor. People enjoy elsewhere; here we endure: Go child, ’tis for your good; ’tis better so. When this poor arm was strong to labor once, Refreshed, rewarded when my darling smiled, Who then had dared advise me to renounce The dear caresses of my child? But I am widowed; Strength departs with Joy. Now sick and sad, I know not what to do. ’Tis vain to beg; our friends are paupers too. Leave thy lorn mother; leave this poor Savoy; Go where God takes thee—go, my cherished boy! Still, far away, think on this homestead lone; Remember it; and this last hour, and this; A mother blesses her beloved one With her embrace; my blessing with my kiss! Now, do you see yon oak? I think I may Go so far with thee; four long years are o’er Since with your father, when he went away, I walked there too; but he returned no more. Were he but here to guide thee forth, ’twould be Less sorrow to my heart to bid thee go. Thou art not ten years old; so helpless—oh! How I shall pray to God, my child, for thee! Unless He aid, how can thy small feet tread Through a cold world, without a mother’s care? She would, at least, instruct thee how to bear; Poor little child! O, why have I no bread? But ’tis God’s will, and we must humbly bow; Don’t weep to leave me, little hapless thing! Take to their palace-gates a cheerful brow, ’Twill grieve thee, oft, to think of me, I know; But to amuse the rest, thou still must sing. Sing, ere life’s bitterness for thee shall come. Now take thy wallet and that poor marmotte; Beguile the way with my old songs of home, Sung to thy cradle in this mountain cot. If I had strength, as in the time gone by, I’d hold thee by the hand and lead thee on; But I should fail, before three days were done; Yes, thou shouldst leave me soon behind, and I— Where I was born, my son, I wish to die. Hear thy poor mother’s last advice, and take The warning, if thou wouldst be blest of Heaven; The poor man’s only wealth is what is given. Ask of the rich; he gives for Jesu’s sake. Thy father said so too; Be thou more fortunate, my boy; adieu! The sun had fallen beneath the neighboring steep, And “we must part,” the mother said at last— On through the oaks the little wanderer passed, Turning, at times; but did not dare to weep. ——— [To the above I have presumed to make a pendant.]