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My father oft to me,
While yet ,an infant, said:—
"Poor boy! his lot will be
To fare on bitter bread."
My mother o'er me sigh'd,
And said—"Poor child! for him,
Life's cup will be supplied
From parch'd and scanty stream."
And oft my brother's tongue
Said—"Luckless boy! take heed,
For, O! thou hast been flung
Upon a sorry steed."
My sister too replied—
All love, all kindness she:
"The sabre at his side
Hangs not becomingly."
My friends cried.—"O, beware,
And ne'er to battle go:
For pain and death are there,
Thou may'st not meet a foe."
F 5
