À LA GRÂCE DE DIEU.
Thou art leaving, O my child, our hills,
To earn thy bread in cities wide,
And sorrow all my bosom fills
That I thy steps no more may guide.
Oh, guard the child the heavens commit,
Good folk of Paris, to your care!
Poor mothers, while at home we sit
What dangers must our children dare.
To whom we bid adieu,
Adieu and God-speed!
Adieu under the grace of God!
Life's voyage here begins for thee,
Ah! if thou ne'er shouldst come again!
And thy poor mother—how can she
Bless thee, oh darling, in her pain?
Work well, and ever, ever pray—
Prayer gives the heart its strength and ring,
Think of thy mother oft,—men say,
Good luck from that must surely spring.
And so my dear adieu,
Adieu and God-speed!
Adieu under the grace of God!
