 | The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson |  |
THE OUTCAST MOTHER.
The wind blew loud, the night was dark,
And heavy fell the rain,
When on the moor a hapless fair,
Aloud did thus complain:
“Oh! do not, do not weep, my sweet!
I cannot shelter thee!
Sleep, sleep, my little baby boy,
There is no sleep for me!
And heavy fell the rain,
When on the moor a hapless fair,
Aloud did thus complain:
“Oh! do not, do not weep, my sweet!
I cannot shelter thee!
Sleep, sleep, my little baby boy,
There is no sleep for me!
“Alas! no cottage lends its light,
To guide us on our way!
A house, or home, love, we have none;
This is our home till day:
Yes! we are doom'd to bear the storm,
Far, far from bush or tree;
But I would heed no angry blast,
Were it not, boy, for thee!
To guide us on our way!
A house, or home, love, we have none;
This is our home till day:
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Far, far from bush or tree;
But I would heed no angry blast,
Were it not, boy, for thee!
“Dear cause of all my sufferings,
Poor living mark of shame!
My heart was spotless, as is thine,
Until thy father came:
Love was, alas! my only crime,
Yes, baby boy, like thee,
I late was innocence itself,
Now there's no rest for me!
Poor living mark of shame!
My heart was spotless, as is thine,
Until thy father came:
Love was, alas! my only crime,
Yes, baby boy, like thee,
I late was innocence itself,
Now there's no rest for me!
“I by my parent am despis'd,
And friend I know not one;
He who shou'd our protector be,
Far, far away is gone:
He flatter'd, ruin'd, left me
To want and misery—
Sweet baby boy, cling to my breast,
I fain would comfort thee!
And friend I know not one;
He who shou'd our protector be,
Far, far away is gone:
He flatter'd, ruin'd, left me
To want and misery—
Sweet baby boy, cling to my breast,
I fain would comfort thee!
“O did my father hear thy cries,
Methinks we yet might live;
And may that Pow'r who guides the storm,
His cruelty forgive!
I late his only darling was,
And he was kind to me;—
Ah! little think'st thou, weeping boy,
What I've endur'd for thee!
Methinks we yet might live;
And may that Pow'r who guides the storm,
His cruelty forgive!
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And he was kind to me;—
Ah! little think'st thou, weeping boy,
What I've endur'd for thee!
“Tho' little do we need, child,
None will our wants supply;
Thy mother oft has fed the poor,
But soon for want must die:
The world, alas! is pitiless;
There is no charity;
O do not weep so, baby, boy!
I cannot shelter thee!
None will our wants supply;
Thy mother oft has fed the poor,
But soon for want must die:
The world, alas! is pitiless;
There is no charity;
O do not weep so, baby, boy!
I cannot shelter thee!
“O rise, thou silver orb of night,
A mourner's breast to cheer;
And in some out-house we may rest,
Till morning shall appear!
—Ah! does thou at the lightning start?
Cling closer, love, to me!
No storm, no lightning I would dread,
Were it not, boy, for thee!
A mourner's breast to cheer;
And in some out-house we may rest,
Till morning shall appear!
—Ah! does thou at the lightning start?
Cling closer, love, to me!
No storm, no lightning I would dread,
Were it not, boy, for thee!
“How cold, cold are thy little feet,
Poor trembling child of woe!
But colder by thy mother's side,
Thou soon wilt be laid low:
Death will ere morn our sorrows end,
And rest give thee and me!
—O weep no more, my baby boy,
I cannot comfort thee!
Poor trembling child of woe!
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Thou soon wilt be laid low:
Death will ere morn our sorrows end,
And rest give thee and me!
—O weep no more, my baby boy,
I cannot comfort thee!
“I feel the welcome pangs of death,
And giddy turns my brain;—
O God of mercy, hear my pray'r,
Nor let me ask in vain!
Forgive the errors of my life,
My only hope's in thee!
—One kiss, my babe!—Alas! I die!
Soon, soon thou'lt rest with me!”
And giddy turns my brain;—
O God of mercy, hear my pray'r,
Nor let me ask in vain!
Forgive the errors of my life,
My only hope's in thee!
—One kiss, my babe!—Alas! I die!
Soon, soon thou'lt rest with me!”
| The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson | |