A Selection of Original Songs, Scraps, Etc., by Ned Farmer/The Blind Boy
The Blind Boy.
From murky clouds, fast hurtling round,
Bursts the loud thunder's deafening sound;
Quick follows each electric flash,
Roar after roar, crash after crash!
While torrent-like the rain doth pour,—
"Who comes in such a fearful hour?"
'Tis poor Old Martha's withered form,
Thus braves the fury of the storm.
See! with unequal, hurried tread,
Uncovered too, that aged head:
What can have happen'd? what's amiss?
To bring her through a storm like this!
Run! Harry, to the door and see,
What the poor creature's troubles be!
(Thus said the father to the son.)
The boy with willing haste hath run,
And ope'd the door to one whose face
Bore sorrow's past and present trace.
"Why Martha?" (thus began the boy,)
"Why look so pale? What makes you cry?"
"Oh! Master Henry! oh!" she said,
"My child! my poor blind child is dead!
Struck, struck by lightning,"—then on the floor,
She shuddering fell, to rise no more!
Of friends, of fortune, long bereft,
With only that one heartstay left:
That son to whom she 'd given birth
Was all that bound the wretch to earth.
For him, she 'd labour'd long, had borne
This world's privations, and its scorn!
For those who know her history tell
She "Loved not wisely but too well!"
That sightless pledge her only joy,
Her poor, her blind, neglected boy!
Now, all was ended, this sad blow
Fill'd to the brim her cup of woe.
Enough of life was left to tell
The death of him she 'd loved so well.
This latest, saddest, grief express'd,
Her broken spirit sunk to rest!