b'Text continuedOne is a musician, she is living at home.One is my mother who is good to me.One is my father who is good to me.By some chance, here they are,All on this earth;And who shall ever tell the sorrowOf being on this earth, lying, on quilts,On the grass,In a summer evening,Among the sounds of the night.May God bless my people,My uncle, my aunt, my mother, my good father,Oh, remember them kindly in their time of trouble;And in the hour of their taking away.After a littleI am taken inAnd put to bed.Sleep, soft smiling,Draws me unto her;And those receive me,Who quietly treat me,As one familiar and well-beloved in that home:But will not, oh, will not,Not now, not ever;But will not ever tell me who I am.'