A Selection of Original Songs, Scraps, Etc., by Ned Farmer (3rd ed.)/The Blind Boy

by Edward Farmer

The Blind Boy.

From murky clouds, fast hurtling round,
Bursts the loud thunder's deafening sound;
Quick follows each electric flash,
Boar 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.
With hurried and unequal 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 her soul 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 lov'd so well:
This latest, saddest grief express'd,
Her broken spirit sank to rest.