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Mother, it troubles me to see Those stranger-ladies come, And urge you so to leave my side, And work for them, at home; Methinks they coldly gaze on me, And shake their heads and say, How feeble and how pale I grow, And waste, and waste away.

And oh, it grieves my heart to think, From morn to evening shade, That you so oft for them must toil, And have from me no aid; And then, with tender words, you say, You wish it were not so, But I should have no food or fire, Unless you sometimes go.

When slow the sunset fades away, And twilight mists appear, The sound of your returning step Is music to my ear;