When cursing the year I was born in,
I felt the first turn of the screw.
And, hope from my bosom departing,
Like dew from the rays of the sun,
My wits the sad news were imparting
How I'd been deluded and done.
And, borne on the telegraph wire,
A message came swiftly to me;
It said that my grey-headed sire
Was pining his offspring to see.