I remember, when quite a boy, buying for my mother of a pedlar, as he sang in the street, the old ballad "Just before the battle, Mother." This was her favourite song because, I think, her brother, their mother's favourite boy, after having fought in many battles, had deserted and fled and was never more heard of. I have sung this song to her many times, never without bringing tears to her eyes; her last request to me as she lay on her death bed (she died 14th March, 1857) was to sing it to her again. It was this occasion - the occasion that comes but once in a lifetime - in which my prospective loss was measured by the depth of a mother's requited love, that I proved most fully the resources of my natural hobby as an outlet for expressions of the tenderest sentiments. I feel as sure as that I am myself awaited by death, that as she lay there, her hand in mine, with this her favourite song in her ear, nothing I could say or do, nor that anyone else could say or do could have better pleased or satisfied her last moments. << less