Why She didn’t Stay in the Poorhouse.No, I didn’t stay in the poorhouse, and this is how, you see,It happened at the very last, there came a way for me.The Lord, he makes our sunniest times out of our darkest days,And yet we fail most always to render His name the praise.But, as I am goin’ to tell you, I have a home of my own,And keep my house, an’—no, I’m not a-livin’ here alone.Of course you wonder how it is, an’ I’m a-goin’ to tellHow, though I couldn’t change a jot, the Lord done all things well.I’ve spoke of Charlie and Thomas, and Rebecca, “that lives out West;”An’ Isaac, not far from her, some twenty miles at best;An’ Susan;—but not a single word I said about another one,—Yet we had six; but Georgie! Ah! he was our wayward son,An’ while his father was livin’ he ran away to sea,An’ never sent a word or line to neither him nor me.Each heart has some secret sorrow it hides in silence there,An’ what we can freely speak of is never so hard to bear.But I couldn’t talk of Georgie—he was too dear to blame,—It seemed as if I couldn’t bear even to hear his name.But when I took my pauper’s place in that old work-house grim,My weary heart was every day a-cryin’ out for him.For I’d tried the love of the others, and found it weak and cold,An’ I kind o’ felt if Georgie knew that I was poor and old,He’d help to make it better, and try to do his part,For love and trust are last of all to die in a woman’s heart.An’ he used to be always tellin’ when he was a man and strong,How he’d work for father and mother; and he never done no wrong,Exceptin’ his boyish mischief, an’ his runnin’ off to sea;—So somehow now, out of them all, he seemed the best to me.And so the slow days wore along, just as the days all go,When we cling to some wild fancy that all the time we knowIs nothing but a fancy, yet we nurse it till ’twould seemThat the dream alone is real, and the real but a dream.And so I clung to Georgie, or clung to my faith in him,And thought of him the long days through, until my eyes were dim.And my old heart ached full sorely to think that never againI should see my boy until we stood before the Judge of men.When one day a big brown-bearded man came rushin’ up to me,Sayin’ “Mother! my God! have they put you here?” An’ then I see’Twas Georgie, my boy, come back to me, and I knowed nothin’ more,’Cause I got faint, and but for him, I’d fallen on the floor.They say he swore some awful words,—I don’t know,—it may be;But swear or not, I know my boy’s been very, very good to me.An’ he’s bought the old home back again, an’ I’ve come here to stay,Never to move till the last move,—the final goin’ away.An’ I take a heap of comfort, for Georgie’s good an’ kind,An’ the thought of bein’ a pauper ain’t wearin’ on my mind;But still I never can forget until my dyin’ day,That they put me in the poorhouse ’cause I was in the way.
Why She didn’t Stay in the Poorhouse.No, I didn’t stay in the poorhouse, and this is how, you see,It happened at the very last, there came a way for me.The Lord, he makes our sunniest times out of our darkest days,And yet we fail most always to render His name the praise.But, as I am goin’ to tell you, I have a home of my own,And keep my house, an’—no, I’m not a-livin’ here alone.Of course you wonder how it is, an’ I’m a-goin’ to tellHow, though I couldn’t change a jot, the Lord done all things well.I’ve spoke of Charlie and Thomas, and Rebecca, “that lives out West;”An’ Isaac, not far from her, some twenty miles at best;An’ Susan;—but not a single word I said about another one,—Yet we had six; but Georgie! Ah! he was our wayward son,An’ while his father was livin’ he ran away to sea,An’ never sent a word or line to neither him nor me.Each heart has some secret sorrow it hides in silence there,An’ what we can freely speak of is never so hard to bear.But I couldn’t talk of Georgie—he was too dear to blame,—It seemed as if I couldn’t bear even to hear his name.But when I took my pauper’s place in that old work-house grim,My weary heart was every day a-cryin’ out for him.For I’d tried the love of the others, and found it weak and cold,An’ I kind o’ felt if Georgie knew that I was poor and old,He’d help to make it better, and try to do his part,For love and trust are last of all to die in a woman’s heart.An’ he used to be always tellin’ when he was a man and strong,How he’d work for father and mother; and he never done no wrong,Exceptin’ his boyish mischief, an’ his runnin’ off to sea;—So somehow now, out of them all, he seemed the best to me.And so the slow days wore along, just as the days all go,When we cling to some wild fancy that all the time we knowIs nothing but a fancy, yet we nurse it till ’twould seemThat the dream alone is real, and the real but a dream.And so I clung to Georgie, or clung to my faith in him,And thought of him the long days through, until my eyes were dim.And my old heart ached full sorely to think that never againI should see my boy until we stood before the Judge of men.When one day a big brown-bearded man came rushin’ up to me,Sayin’ “Mother! my God! have they put you here?” An’ then I see’Twas Georgie, my boy, come back to me, and I knowed nothin’ more,’Cause I got faint, and but for him, I’d fallen on the floor.They say he swore some awful words,—I don’t know,—it may be;But swear or not, I know my boy’s been very, very good to me.An’ he’s bought the old home back again, an’ I’ve come here to stay,Never to move till the last move,—the final goin’ away.An’ I take a heap of comfort, for Georgie’s good an’ kind,An’ the thought of bein’ a pauper ain’t wearin’ on my mind;But still I never can forget until my dyin’ day,That they put me in the poorhouse ’cause I was in the way.
No, I didn’t stay in the poorhouse, and this is how, you see,It happened at the very last, there came a way for me.The Lord, he makes our sunniest times out of our darkest days,And yet we fail most always to render His name the praise.But, as I am goin’ to tell you, I have a home of my own,And keep my house, an’—no, I’m not a-livin’ here alone.Of course you wonder how it is, an’ I’m a-goin’ to tellHow, though I couldn’t change a jot, the Lord done all things well.I’ve spoke of Charlie and Thomas, and Rebecca, “that lives out West;”An’ Isaac, not far from her, some twenty miles at best;An’ Susan;—but not a single word I said about another one,—Yet we had six; but Georgie! Ah! he was our wayward son,An’ while his father was livin’ he ran away to sea,An’ never sent a word or line to neither him nor me.Each heart has some secret sorrow it hides in silence there,An’ what we can freely speak of is never so hard to bear.But I couldn’t talk of Georgie—he was too dear to blame,—It seemed as if I couldn’t bear even to hear his name.But when I took my pauper’s place in that old work-house grim,My weary heart was every day a-cryin’ out for him.For I’d tried the love of the others, and found it weak and cold,An’ I kind o’ felt if Georgie knew that I was poor and old,He’d help to make it better, and try to do his part,For love and trust are last of all to die in a woman’s heart.An’ he used to be always tellin’ when he was a man and strong,How he’d work for father and mother; and he never done no wrong,Exceptin’ his boyish mischief, an’ his runnin’ off to sea;—So somehow now, out of them all, he seemed the best to me.And so the slow days wore along, just as the days all go,When we cling to some wild fancy that all the time we knowIs nothing but a fancy, yet we nurse it till ’twould seemThat the dream alone is real, and the real but a dream.And so I clung to Georgie, or clung to my faith in him,And thought of him the long days through, until my eyes were dim.And my old heart ached full sorely to think that never againI should see my boy until we stood before the Judge of men.When one day a big brown-bearded man came rushin’ up to me,Sayin’ “Mother! my God! have they put you here?” An’ then I see’Twas Georgie, my boy, come back to me, and I knowed nothin’ more,’Cause I got faint, and but for him, I’d fallen on the floor.They say he swore some awful words,—I don’t know,—it may be;But swear or not, I know my boy’s been very, very good to me.An’ he’s bought the old home back again, an’ I’ve come here to stay,Never to move till the last move,—the final goin’ away.An’ I take a heap of comfort, for Georgie’s good an’ kind,An’ the thought of bein’ a pauper ain’t wearin’ on my mind;But still I never can forget until my dyin’ day,That they put me in the poorhouse ’cause I was in the way.
No, I didn’t stay in the poorhouse, and this is how, you see,It happened at the very last, there came a way for me.The Lord, he makes our sunniest times out of our darkest days,And yet we fail most always to render His name the praise.But, as I am goin’ to tell you, I have a home of my own,And keep my house, an’—no, I’m not a-livin’ here alone.Of course you wonder how it is, an’ I’m a-goin’ to tellHow, though I couldn’t change a jot, the Lord done all things well.I’ve spoke of Charlie and Thomas, and Rebecca, “that lives out West;”An’ Isaac, not far from her, some twenty miles at best;An’ Susan;—but not a single word I said about another one,—Yet we had six; but Georgie! Ah! he was our wayward son,An’ while his father was livin’ he ran away to sea,An’ never sent a word or line to neither him nor me.Each heart has some secret sorrow it hides in silence there,An’ what we can freely speak of is never so hard to bear.But I couldn’t talk of Georgie—he was too dear to blame,—It seemed as if I couldn’t bear even to hear his name.But when I took my pauper’s place in that old work-house grim,My weary heart was every day a-cryin’ out for him.For I’d tried the love of the others, and found it weak and cold,An’ I kind o’ felt if Georgie knew that I was poor and old,He’d help to make it better, and try to do his part,For love and trust are last of all to die in a woman’s heart.An’ he used to be always tellin’ when he was a man and strong,How he’d work for father and mother; and he never done no wrong,Exceptin’ his boyish mischief, an’ his runnin’ off to sea;—So somehow now, out of them all, he seemed the best to me.And so the slow days wore along, just as the days all go,When we cling to some wild fancy that all the time we knowIs nothing but a fancy, yet we nurse it till ’twould seemThat the dream alone is real, and the real but a dream.And so I clung to Georgie, or clung to my faith in him,And thought of him the long days through, until my eyes were dim.And my old heart ached full sorely to think that never againI should see my boy until we stood before the Judge of men.When one day a big brown-bearded man came rushin’ up to me,Sayin’ “Mother! my God! have they put you here?” An’ then I see’Twas Georgie, my boy, come back to me, and I knowed nothin’ more,’Cause I got faint, and but for him, I’d fallen on the floor.They say he swore some awful words,—I don’t know,—it may be;But swear or not, I know my boy’s been very, very good to me.An’ he’s bought the old home back again, an’ I’ve come here to stay,Never to move till the last move,—the final goin’ away.An’ I take a heap of comfort, for Georgie’s good an’ kind,An’ the thought of bein’ a pauper ain’t wearin’ on my mind;But still I never can forget until my dyin’ day,That they put me in the poorhouse ’cause I was in the way.
No, I didn’t stay in the poorhouse, and this is how, you see,
It happened at the very last, there came a way for me.
The Lord, he makes our sunniest times out of our darkest days,
And yet we fail most always to render His name the praise.
But, as I am goin’ to tell you, I have a home of my own,
And keep my house, an’—no, I’m not a-livin’ here alone.
Of course you wonder how it is, an’ I’m a-goin’ to tell
How, though I couldn’t change a jot, the Lord done all things well.
I’ve spoke of Charlie and Thomas, and Rebecca, “that lives out West;”
An’ Isaac, not far from her, some twenty miles at best;
An’ Susan;—but not a single word I said about another one,—
Yet we had six; but Georgie! Ah! he was our wayward son,
An’ while his father was livin’ he ran away to sea,
An’ never sent a word or line to neither him nor me.
Each heart has some secret sorrow it hides in silence there,
An’ what we can freely speak of is never so hard to bear.
But I couldn’t talk of Georgie—he was too dear to blame,—
It seemed as if I couldn’t bear even to hear his name.
But when I took my pauper’s place in that old work-house grim,
My weary heart was every day a-cryin’ out for him.
For I’d tried the love of the others, and found it weak and cold,
An’ I kind o’ felt if Georgie knew that I was poor and old,
He’d help to make it better, and try to do his part,
For love and trust are last of all to die in a woman’s heart.
An’ he used to be always tellin’ when he was a man and strong,
How he’d work for father and mother; and he never done no wrong,
Exceptin’ his boyish mischief, an’ his runnin’ off to sea;—
So somehow now, out of them all, he seemed the best to me.
And so the slow days wore along, just as the days all go,
When we cling to some wild fancy that all the time we know
Is nothing but a fancy, yet we nurse it till ’twould seem
That the dream alone is real, and the real but a dream.
And so I clung to Georgie, or clung to my faith in him,
And thought of him the long days through, until my eyes were dim.
And my old heart ached full sorely to think that never again
I should see my boy until we stood before the Judge of men.
When one day a big brown-bearded man came rushin’ up to me,
Sayin’ “Mother! my God! have they put you here?” An’ then I see
’Twas Georgie, my boy, come back to me, and I knowed nothin’ more,
’Cause I got faint, and but for him, I’d fallen on the floor.
They say he swore some awful words,—I don’t know,—it may be;
But swear or not, I know my boy’s been very, very good to me.
An’ he’s bought the old home back again, an’ I’ve come here to stay,
Never to move till the last move,—the final goin’ away.
An’ I take a heap of comfort, for Georgie’s good an’ kind,
An’ the thought of bein’ a pauper ain’t wearin’ on my mind;
But still I never can forget until my dyin’ day,
That they put me in the poorhouse ’cause I was in the way.