No mother to teach you, no mother to guide
Your tender affections from sin’s awful tide;
No portion to shun you from hunger or cold,
My poor little orphans are cast on the world.
When sorrows oppress you and sickness comes on,
You’ll cry for your mother, but, oh, she is gone;
Your father, in anger, struck her on the head,
She bled, groan’d, and languish’d, and now she is dead.
My heart swells with sorrow, my eyes overflow,
Soon, oh my dear children, I’ll bid you adieu;