Now sick and sad, I know not what to do.
’Tis vain to beg; our friends are paupers too.
Leave thy lorn mother; leave this poor Savoy;
Go where God takes thee—go, my cherished boy!
Still, far away, think on this homestead lone;
Remember it; and this last hour, and this;
A mother blesses her beloved one
With her embrace; my blessing with my kiss!
Now, do you see yon oak? I think I may
Go so far with thee; four long years are o’er