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The Pamphlet Collection of Sir Robert Stout: Volume 45

The Drunkard's Daughter

The Drunkard's Daughter.

Out in the street, with naked feet,
I saw the drunkard's daughter;
Her tattered shawl was thin and small;
She little knew, for no one taught her.

Her skin was fair, her auburn hair
Was blown about her pretty forehead;
Her sad white face wore sorrow's trace,
And want and woe that were not borrowed.

She softly said: "We have no bread.
No wood to keep the fire burning."
The child was ill; the winds so chill
Her thin, cold blood to ice was turning.

But men well fed and warmly clad,
And ladies robed in richest fashion,
Passed on the side where no one cried
To them for pity or compassion.

That long night fled, and then the light
Of rosy day, in beauty shining,
Set dome and spire and roof on fire,
And shone on one beyond repining.

Asleep—alone—as cold as stone,
Where no dear parent sought her;
In winding-sheet of snow and sleet,
Was found the drunkard's lifeless daughter.