Had he the drunkard’s fate foreseen.

Go to my mother’s side,

And her crushed spirit cheer;

Thine own deep anguish hide,

Wipe from her cheek the tear;

Mark her dimmed eye, her furrowed brow,

The gray that streaks her dark hair now,

The toil-worn frame, the trembling limb,

And trace the ruin back to him

Whose plighted faith in early youth,