MY BOY
I have a little boy, a fine little fellow is he! When I see him it appears to me the whole world is mine.
Only rarely, rarely I see him, my pretty little son, when he is awake; I find him always asleep, I see him only at night.
My work drives me out early and brings me home late; oh, my own flesh is a stranger to me; oh, strange to me the glances of my child!
I come home in anguish and shrouded in darkness—my pale wife tells how nicely the child plays.
I stand by the cradle.
I stand in pain and anguish and bitterness, and I think: “When you awake some day, my child, you will find me no more.”
Seven-day labor is the burden of the song Despair: