There are voices of sorrow, and voices of glee,
But there's no one to joy or to sorrow with me;
For each hath of pleasure and trouble his share,
And none for the poor little blind boy will care.
My mother, come back to me! close to thy breast
Once more let thy poor little blind boy be pressed;
Once more let me feel thy warm breath on my cheek,
And hear thee in accents of tenderness speak.
O mother! I've no one to love me—no heart
Can bear like thine own in my sorrows a part,