How pretty are the flowers that bloom! How beautiful the children who have a mother!

Other people’s children are like dolls: and I am an orphan.

Other people’s children have mothers: and my Mother is with God.

O, my Mother died! My Mother—

O unhappy fortune! She will never speak,

She will never ask me, “What are you doing, my daughter?”

When I begin to think of my dear Mother

Sorrow so heavy overtakes me that I can hardly bear it.

There is no flower in this world prettier than the Cranberry:

No one is so lovely as a mother to a child.