THE BOHEMIAN MOTHER’S TALE.
He was not like the other boys,
Who only cared for noisy plays;
He used to throw away his toys,
And lie there dreaming half his days.
He was an idle lad,
Who would not learn at school;
But I can’t say that he was bad,
Beyond the rule.
He was not strong enough to work,
To do the drudgery of the farm;
His father’s words they seemed to hurt,
Though, heaven knows, he meant no harm.
The boy would flush with pain,
At every angry tone;
I’ve often watched him through the lane
Walk off alone.
A boy like that can never live,
And thrive, in such a home as ours;
I therefore thought ’tis best to give
A boy like that to higher powers.
Within the convent gate
I led my wayward son,
Right thankful was I, and elate
When it was done.
The convent stood upon a hill;
You could see far on either side;
The brothers had some fields to till,
And they had forests far and wide.
They taught my son to serve,
And also how to pray.
I watched him often with the herd,
Pass by that way.
