Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/134

I often wondered that my lad
Lived in such wealth, and sent me naught.
His father said that he was bad,
’Twas only for himself he wrought;
And so years passed away;
My poor eyes they grew dim.
At length there came a knock one day,
And it was him.

My God! and was that then my son,
That skeleton, that scarce could walk!
One say at once his life was done,
He hardly had the strength to talk.
We bore him to his bed,
And I sat by his side,
And every word was kind we said,
Until he died.

It seemed that it was all a lie,
About that wealth they said he had;
He lived up in a garret high,
And starved himself to death, my lad.
He won the prize, you say,
The greatest prize they give.
What care I for the words they say,
Or things they give?

Not long ago they came to look
Upon the house where he was born;
On all the things that he forsook
To go and lead that life forlorn.
One said, “He asked for aid
And I refused him then.”
Another said, “Would I had staid,
Up in his den.”

They told me that my boy was great,
I could be proud of such a son;
And they lamented much his fate
And sorrowed that his life was done.
And wherefor did he die?
Alas! you know too well.
Neglect and want, the reason why,
’Tis sad to tell.