The winds roared, and the rains fell;
The poor white man, faint and weary,
Came and sat under our tree.
He has no mother to bring him milk,
No wife to grind his corn.
CHORUS.
Let us pity the white man;
No mother has he to bring him milk,
No wife to grind his corn.
The air was sweet and plaintive, and the kind sentiments it conveyed affected Mr. Park so deeply that he could not sleep. In the morning, he gave his landlady two of the four brass buttons that remained on his waistcoat; these were all he had to offer to signify his gratitude.