Baloo, my boy, weep not for me,
Whose greatest grief’s for wranging thee,
Nor pity her deserved smart,
Who can blame none but her fond heart.
Baloo, my boy, thy father’s fled,
When he the thriftless son hath played;
Of vows and oaths forgetful, he
Preferred the wars to thee and me:
But now perhaps thy curse and mine
Makes him eat acorns with the swine.