Classic Poem

“O my dear father,
Away I am going,
I long to be knowing
The joys of liberty.”
“Son, take thy money,
Take it and squander;
Where thou wilt, wander;
Have thy liberty.

“At each step remember
The grief of thy mother,
The love of thy brother,
And thy father's care.”
He went down the staircase,
Went hurrying madly,
Where his comrades all gladly
Waited him there.

“O my good fellows,
Here 's plenty of money;
We 'll have wine and honey,
And music till dawn.
Set hands to the lute here,
We 'll sing and drink faster!”
But soon comes disaster,
The money is gone!

Oh when his brave comrades
His money had wasted,
To see how they hasted
Away from the place!
They left him all naked,
These friends of fair weather,
They hurried together,
Left him in disgrace.
“O my friends, my good fellows,
How can you hurt me?
Do not desert me
In this lonely place!”

There came the innkeeper:
Accounts must be reckoned
In this very second
For these great affairs;
Angry and cruel,
He strode from the room then,
And seizing the broom then,
Swept the boy downstairs.


“O my good master,
I have not a shilling.
Now would you be willing
To hire me to-day?
For dry bread and water
I 'll wait at the house here;
As still as a mouse here,
Contented I 'll stay.”

“Stay then, my fine boy,
The swine you 'll be minding,
And hard fare be finding,
Winter and spring.”
His tears they were falling,
And on a stone sinking,
He set him to thinking—
The son of a king!
He said to himself there:
“What life thou art leading,
These swine to be feeding,
Thou, son of a king!

“I have a dear father,
So gentle and kindly;
I left him so blindly,
Deserve him no more!

If I should go to him,
Perhaps he will beat me,
Or angrily meet me,—
I 'll go there no more!”

Yet to see his dear father,
Homeward returning
With sorrow and yearning
He starts out to run.


The father is sitting
In his terrace off yonder,
To sigh and to wonder:
“Where is my son?”

The father is watching,
With a glass he is spying:
“Let him thrive or be dying,
He comes here no more!
If that were he running,
If he came to ask pardon,
This old heart I 'd harden,
And show him the door!”

The father has seen him
Far off appearing,
He watches him nearing,
Shouts hither and yon:
“Look forth, O my friends, now!
My people! My pages!
Be quick, earn your wages!
This is my son!

“Make haste to strip from him
All this vile clothing,
It fills me with loathing,—
The son of a king!
Now make his bath ready,
And rich garments worthy
Of his noble birth,—he
Is son of a king!”