BY OVERSTREET.

Who is it, in this life so drear,
That pines for the wandering boy,

And ever ready with words of cheer
To turn sad thoughts to joy?

Mother.

Who is it, when all others do forsake
And leave us to our grief,

That will for long hours lie awake
And pray for our relief?

Mother.

Who is it, when the world laughs on
And gives our sighs no thought,

That thinks of the boy who looks upon
This life that's come to naught?

Mother.

Who is it, when from prison freed—
The boy goes forth so sadly—

That receives him in his hour of need
With tears of joy—yea, gladly?

Mother.

Who is it, when the end has come,
Looks fondly on her child,

And prays to God for a happy home
For the boy that's been so wild?

Mother.