An’ Isaac, not far from her, some twenty miles at best;
An’ Susan;—but not a single word I said about another one,—
Yet we had six; but Georgie! Ah! he was our wayward son,
An’ while his father was livin’ he ran away to sea,
An’ never sent a word or line to neither him nor me.
Each heart has some secret sorrow it hides in silence there,
An’ what we can freely speak of is never so hard to bear.
But I couldn’t talk of Georgie—he was too dear to blame,—
It seemed as if I couldn’t bear even to hear his name.
But when I took my pauper’s place in that old work-house grim,