 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
REMEMBER THE CHILDREN.
From the forges black of labour,
Where the day is always drear,
And the night itself no neighbour
To the children full of fear—
To the children lone, and laden
With the burdens to which born,
Never meant for boy or maiden,
To the evening from the morn;
We, who lack a mother's nursing,
Ere our little wings can fly,
From the labour that is cursing,
Feebly cry.
Where the day is always drear,
And the night itself no neighbour
To the children full of fear—
To the children lone, and laden
With the burdens to which born,
Never meant for boy or maiden,
To the evening from the morn;
We, who lack a mother's nursing,
Ere our little wings can fly,
From the labour that is cursing,
Feebly cry.
From the workshop hushed, where toilers
Would, but cannot, earn the crust,
Grudged by hands of greedy spoilers,
Who have ground them into dust;
Where the hammer rests in stillness,
And the rust devours the steel,
Though poor sufferers pine with illness,
And in vain for pity kneel;
We, but babies for the bosom,
Who can scarcely stand or crawl,
In the dirt that does not blossom,
Faintly call.
Would, but cannot, earn the crust,
Grudged by hands of greedy spoilers,
Who have ground them into dust;
Where the hammer rests in stillness,
And the rust devours the steel,
Though poor sufferers pine with illness,
And in vain for pity kneel;
We, but babies for the bosom,
Who can scarcely stand or crawl,
In the dirt that does not blossom,
Faintly call.
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From the crossing and the gutter,
Where we hopeless beg and creep,
In a night forlorn and utter,
For the pence we cannot keep;
Where we herd with dogs and vermin,
Fighting with them for the bone,
While sweet ladies wrapt in ermine,
Asked for bread, give pavement stone;
From the drunken woe and reelings,
Only for some tiny task,
We, who still have children's feelings,
Dimly ask.
Where we hopeless beg and creep,
In a night forlorn and utter,
For the pence we cannot keep;
Where we herd with dogs and vermin,
Fighting with them for the bone,
While sweet ladies wrapt in ermine,
Asked for bread, give pavement stone;
From the drunken woe and reelings,
Only for some tiny task,
We, who still have children's feelings,
Dimly ask.
From the hateful maze of error,
Winding down to prison walls,
And the hourly scourge of terror,
Which on broken spirit falls;
As we blindly starve and struggle,
Tottering on from bad to worse,
Lured by lights that only juggle
Ours, and fill another's purse;
We, whose lot has lost direction,
And without a friend to plead,
For some crumbs of your affection
Fondly plead.
Winding down to prison walls,
And the hourly scourge of terror,
Which on broken spirit falls;
As we blindly starve and struggle,
Tottering on from bad to worse,
Lured by lights that only juggle
Ours, and fill another's purse;
We, whose lot has lost direction,
And without a friend to plead,
For some crumbs of your affection
Fondly plead.
From the awful oaths, and cruel
Kindness that would drug with gin,
And the poison, that is fuel
To more fiery bursts of sin;
As we ever stray and stumble,
Under skies that are not blue,
With the weary feet that fumble,
On their treadmill, for a clue;
We who did not choose our portion,
And would even prefer the grave,
For one smile, from life's distortion,
Sadly crave.
Kindness that would drug with gin,
And the poison, that is fuel
To more fiery bursts of sin;
As we ever stray and stumble,
Under skies that are not blue,
With the weary feet that fumble,
On their treadmill, for a clue;
We who did not choose our portion,
And would even prefer the grave,
For one smile, from life's distortion,
Sadly crave.
From the archway and the corner,
Where we snatch a haunted rest
From the parent, and the scorner
Who has not a parent's breast;
When in dreams of want and weeping,
The dark daily strivings close,
And we sink in dreaded sleeping,
With the mockery of repose;
We, who meet with nought but loathing,
Just on this the children's day,
For your scraps of food and clothing
Humbly pray.
Where we snatch a haunted rest
From the parent, and the scorner
Who has not a parent's breast;
When in dreams of want and weeping,
The dark daily strivings close,
And we sink in dreaded sleeping,
With the mockery of repose;
We, who meet with nought but loathing,
Just on this the children's day,
For your scraps of food and clothing
Humbly pray.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |