4
Balow, my child, thy mother mild,
Shall wail as from all bliss exil'd.
Balow, my boy, &c
Balow, my boy, weep not for me,
Whose greatest grief's for wronging thee,
Nor pity her deserved smart
Who can blame none but her fond heart;
For, too soon trusting latest finds,
With fairest tongues are falsest minds.
Balow, my boy, &c.
Balow, my boy, thy father's fled,
When he the thriftless son has play'd,
Of vows and oaths, forgetful he,
Prefer'd the wars to thee and me.
But now perhaps thy curse and mine,
Make him ate acorns with the swine.
Balow, my boy, &c.
But curse not him perhaps now he,
Stung with remorse, is blessing thee;
Perhaps at death for who can tell;
Whether the Judge of Heaven or Hell,
By some proud foe has struck the blow,
And laid the dear deceiver low.
Below, my boy, &c.
