My only solace, only joy,
Since the sad day I lost my mother,
Is nursing her own Willy boy,
My little orphan brother.
THE TEXT
One Sunday eve a grave old man,
Who had not been at church, did say,
"Eliza, tell me, if you can,
What text our Doctor took to-day?"
She hung her head, she blush'd for shame,
One single word she did not know,
Nor verse nor chapter she could name,
Her silent blushes told him so.
Again said he, "My little maid,
What in the sermon did you hear;
Come tell me that, for that may aid
Me to find out the text, my dear."
A tear stole down each blushing cheek,
She wish'd she better had attended;
She sobbing said, when she could speak,
She heard not till 'twas almost ended.
"Ah! little heedless one, why what
Could you be thinking on? 'tis clear
Some foolish fancies must have got
Possession of your head, my dear.
"What thoughts were they, Eliza, tell,
Nor seek from me the truth to smother."—
"O I remember very well,
I whisper'd something to my brother.
"I said, 'Be friends with me, dear Will;'
We quarrell'd, Sir, at the church door,—
Though he cried, 'Hush, don't speak, be still,'
Yet I repeated these words o'er
"Sev'n or eight times, I have no doubt.
But here comes William, and if he
The good things he has heard about
Forgets too, Sir, the fault's in me."