The Secret Sorrow. Punch

Oh! let me from the festive board
To thee, my mother, flee;
And be my secret sorrow shared
By thee—by only thee!

In vain they spread the glitt’ring store,
The rich repast, in vain;
Let others seek enjoyment there,
To me ’tis only pain.

There WAS a word of kind advice—
A whisper soft and low,
But oh! that ONE resistless smile!
Alas! why was it so?

No blame, no blame, my mother dear.
Do I impute to YOU,
But since I ate that currant tart
I don’t know what to do!