"The night my father got me
His mind was not on me;
He did not plague his fancy
To muse if I should be
The son you see.
The day my mother bore me
She was a fool and glad,
For all the pain I cost her,
That she had borne the lad
That borne she had.
My father and my mother
Out of the light they lie;
The warrant would not find them.
And here, 'tis only I
Shall hang so high.
O let not man remember
The soul that God forgot.
But fetch the county sheriff
And noose me in a knot,
And I will rot.
And so the game is ended,
That should not have begun.
My father and my mother
They had a likely son,
And I have none."
No one knows what will be the fate of the child he gets or the child she bears; the fate of the child is the last thing they consider. This weary old world goes on, begetting, with birth and with living and with death; and all of it is blind from the beginning to the end. I
