I would not chill the sunny glow
That nestles in thy breast,
Nor have thy little heart to know
The pangs which mine oppress.
Nay, mother, pray confide to me
The griefs which wring thy heart;
I’m sure I do not wish to be
More happy than thou art.
God bless thee, boy; I can but weep,
Yet ’tis with mingled joy,