writer unknown: My grandmother - born 1890 in North GA mountains, would sing this tear jerker to us:

O Father do not bid me come
to meet your new-made bride
I could not greet her in the room
where my dear mother died.

Her picture's hanging on the wall
Her books are lying there.
And there's the harp her fingers played
And there's her vacant chair.

The chair by which I used to kneel
to say my evening prayer
O father do not bid me come (??? )
I cannot greet her there ( ??? )

[See THE BLIND CHILD'S PRAYER.]