When I left home and mother, I was but a lad,
To go and battle with the world, it made her poor heart sad;
The struggle was a hard one, ere I a fortune earned,
But mother dear had passed away when homeward I returned.
For what had been my struggle, and the money I had saved?
With all I could not call her back from the cold, cold grave.
The memory of my childhood days came back to me again,
I prayed to hear the old, old songs, but prayer was all in vain.
My Lady Fair
My lady loves the poems that are old;