But ’tis God’s will, and we must humbly bow;
Don’t weep to leave me, little hapless thing!
Take to their palace-gates a cheerful brow,
’Twill grieve thee, oft, to think of me, I know;
But to amuse the rest, thou still must sing.
Sing, ere life’s bitterness for thee shall come.
Now take thy wallet and that poor marmotte;
Beguile the way with my old songs of home,
Sung to thy cradle in this mountain cot.
If I had strength, as in the time gone by,