new-york

d. appleton & co. 200 broadway.

gentle lady, good and happy,

hear my simple tale, i pray;

’tis the sad, sad truth, i tell you,

send us not so soon away.

once we had a home of plenty,

once we knew a father’s care,

once a mother’s fond affection

breathed for us the nightly prayer.

now we wander, lost, and lonely,

over many a weary mile;

gloomy night comes gathering round us,

but we find no mother’s smile.

once there came a gloomy winter,

trade was bad, and wages low,

dark december rains were falling

over heaps of melting snow.

one sad evening—never, never

can that evening be forgot;

something came, across our father,

anger—grief—we knew not what.

from that time his mind seemed wandering,

and his manly look was gone;

sometimes kind, and sometimes fretful,

constant to one vice alone.

constant to one guilty pleasure,

when those fatal doors were passed,

shame was vanquished, conscience followed,

all our comforts went at last.

long my mother bore in silence

loss of plenty, loss of fame;

though sometimes the gossip’s slander

tinged her faded cheek with shame.

little did we know that sorrow

had such deep and deadly power,

little dreamed her strength was failing—

failing faster, hour by hour;

[97]

till one awful moment told us

all the fatal truth at last;

to her restless bed she called us,

o’er my brow her fingers passed.

there were sighs, and words so broken,

yet so fond, and full of love;

and her smiles—we ne’er forgot them,

like an angel’s from above.

thus she passed; and oh how lonely—

worse than lonely we were left!

all too late, our wretched father

seemed of every hope bereft.

sometimes frantic, sometimes sullen,

weeping like a fretful child,

oftener to his haunts returning,

lost and reckless, weak and wild.

thus he died: we asked not whether

by the public way he fell;

strangers brought him to our dwelling,

none the dreadful tale would tell.

thus, kind lady, thus we wander

over many a weary mile:

i could work—but little martha,

who would care for her the while?

would your daughters, gentle lady,

hear my little sister sing?

small the pittance that we ask you,

hunger is a fearful thing.

may you never know how bitter

sorrow is, and want, and shame;

gracious heaven has made you happy,

may it keep you still the same!

m e .