From bagpipes or the bogy-man
Into his mother's arms he ran,
There coaxed from her a ball to throw
With his daddy to and fro.

His own sweet songs he'd then be singing,
Then for a nut with a shout be springing;
Holding my hand he'd trot about with me,
Coax me now, and now fall out with me,
Now, make it up again, lip to lip,
For a dainty die or a curling chip.
Would God my lovely little lad
A second life, like Lazarus, had!
St. Beuno raised from death at once
St. Winifred and her six nuns;
Would to God the Saint could win
An eighth from death in Johnny Glynn!

Ah, Mary! my merry little knave,
Coffined and covered in the grave!
To think of him beneath the slab
Deals my lone heart a double stab.

Bright dream beyond my own life's shore,
Proud purpose of my future's store,
My hope, my comfort from annoy,
My jewel and my glowing joy,
My nest of shade from out the sun,
My lark, my soaring, singing one,
My golden shaft of faithful love