What did the boy of my fond hopes do?
Murdered his sweetheart? Oh, loving God!
This comes from the wicked path he trod.
A drunken quarrel? She led him on!
And he’s a murderer! my son, my son!”
Mother, when bidding your child farewell,
With heartaches more than tongue can tell,
When laying him low in the cold, cold ground,
And tenderly heaping the little mound—
There’s a land of hope just over the hill,