She held him in her bronzen arms
And fed him from her lavish breast,
And rid him of a child's alarms,
With songs that gave him rest.
He loved her tenderly, he said,
And vowed to fill her life with pleasure.
He's growing old and she is dead,
A picture in his memory's treasure.
But once he paused upon the bench
Ere yet he spake the final sentence
Upon a slender black-faced wench,
Whose eyes were grime with unrepentance:
"Old Mammy's child! Tut! Tut! 'Tis bad
For one so young to mock the law.
Your mother's eyes must deepend sad,
She looked upon these things with awe."