A child lay on his mother's knee,
She dangled it with joy and pride,
I wonder what my child will be,
When I no more am by his side.
Perhaps a warrior he'll become,
And armies lead in proud array,
To hear the marshal fife and drum,
And proclaim that he has won the fray.
Perhaps to statesmanship he will rise,
And grasp the rudder of the state,
And leave a name that never dies,
Amongst the noble and the great.
Or if he may not speak the voice,
Which promulgates a country's laws,
Perhaps in song he will rejoice,
A people's heart and plead the cause.
Ah thus he mused as on her knee,
The smiling babe she fondly nursed,
No thought that of his destiny,
There hung the plight of the accursed.
The mother died the son lives on,
But does her bosom proudly swell,
To hear of victory's he has won,
Oh no he's in the felon cell.
No states-mans laurel crown for him,
No poet's bias around his brow,
Beside him stands a shadow grim,
Prepared to beckon come, come now.
And when that awful sign is made,
He has no power to it defy,
As on his mother's knee he lay,
She never dreamt the death he'd die.