Lonely here it grew, and silent,
From the day that “Gold-bag Jon”[[27]]
Started with his pack, a pedlar.
[Dries her eyes with her apron.
Ah, you’re big and strong enough,
You should be a staff and pillar
For your mother’s frail old age,—
You should keep the farm-work going,
Guard the remnants of your gear;—
[Crying again.