I made him mine in pain and fright,
The only little lad I'd got,
And woke up aching night by night
To mind him in his baby cot;
And, whiles, I jigged him on my knee
And sang the way a mother sings,
Seeing him wondering up at me
Sewing his little things,
And never gave a thought to wars and kings.
I heard his prayers or smacked him good,
And watched him learning miles ahead
Of all his mother ever could,
Roughing my hands to set him bread;
And when he was a man I tried
Not to forget as he was grown,
And didn't keep him close beside
All for my very own--
And meanwhiles you was brooding on your throne.
And now--He wouldn't wait no more,
I've helped him go, I couldn't choose;
My one's another in the score
Of all you've grabbed; seems like I lose.
But don't you think you've done so well
Taking my lad that's got but one;
He'll fight for me, he'll fight like hell,
And, when you're down and done,
You'll curse the day you stole my only son.
* * * * *