 | Original poems for my children |  |
THE POOR GIRL TO HER MOTHER.
Oh, mother dear! were you to die,
I do not know what I should do;
For no one else, were they to try,
Could be so kind to me as you.
I do not know what I should do;
For no one else, were they to try,
Could be so kind to me as you.
When at your feet I lowly kneel,
And pray to God, to give me grace,
I cannot tell you all I feel,
When I look up into your face.
And pray to God, to give me grace,
I cannot tell you all I feel,
When I look up into your face.
For tears will come, do what I will,
When your pale care-worn face I see;
And I oft think, if you were ill,
Oh! what would then become of me.
When your pale care-worn face I see;
And I oft think, if you were ill,
Oh! what would then become of me.
I know how hard you work for me,
I know that we are very poor;
And that I must, (if I lost thee),
Go beg my bread from door to door.
I know that we are very poor;
And that I must, (if I lost thee),
Go beg my bread from door to door.
I know you sit up half the night,
And sew, and sew, for little pay;
I hear you rise before 't is light,
And see you sit and sew all day;
And sew, and sew, for little pay;
I hear you rise before 't is light,
And see you sit and sew all day;
Oh! it is this which makes me weep,
And oft I sit up in my bed,
When you believe I 'm fast asleep,
And see your hand support your head:—
And oft I sit up in my bed,
When you believe I 'm fast asleep,
And see your hand support your head:—
And when you say, “poor child,” and sigh,
My head beneath the clothes I hide;
I cannot bear to hear you cry
As you have done, since father died.
My head beneath the clothes I hide;
I cannot bear to hear you cry
As you have done, since father died.
I 'm but a little girl, I know,
And 't is but little I can do;
Taller and stronger I shall grow,
And then I 'll work as hard for you.
And 't is but little I can do;
Taller and stronger I shall grow,
And then I 'll work as hard for you.
| Original poems for my children | |