I have a little boy at home,
A pretty little son;
I think sometimes the world is mine
In him, my only one.

But seldom, seldom do I see
My child in heaven's light;
I find him always fast asleep...
I see him but at night.

Ere dawn my labor drives me forth;
'Tis night when I am free;
A stranger am I to my child;
And strange my child to me.

I come in darkness to my home,
With weariness and--pay;
My pallid wife, she waits to tell
The things he learned to say.

How plain and prettily he asked:
'Dear mamma, when's 'Tonight'?
O when will come my dear papa
And bring a penny bright?'

I hear her words--I hasten out--
This moment must it be!--
The father-love flames in my breast:
My child must look at me!

I stand beside the tiny cot,
And look, and list, and--ah!
A dream-thought moves the baby-lips:
'O, where is my papa!'

I kiss and kiss the shut blue eyes;
I kiss them not in vain.
They open,--O they see me then!
And straightway close again.

'Here's your papa, my precious one;--
A penny for you!'--ah!
A dream still moves the baby-lips:
'O, where is my papa!'

And I--I think in bitterness
And disappointment sore;
'Some day you will awake, my child,
To find me nevermore.'