An old man to our hearth had come,

  One evening in the time of snow,

He told us of his childhood home,

  And of his parents long ago:

How much for him they worked and prayed-

  How long their toils and prayers were done;

And then the old man sighing said,

‘’If I had been a better son’’


We never knew what early sin

  Called forth that aged traveller’s sigh,

But often have I thought since then,

  My parents must grow old and die;

And mine may be a grief as keen

  For harsh words said, or follies done;

Therefore, my daily prayer has been;

Therefore, my daily prayer has been

  That I might be a better son.