Page:A Selection of Original Songs, Scraps, Etc., by Ned Farmer (3rd ed.).djvu/121



sat, the statue of despair; Her silken black dishevelled hair In wild disorder hung, while she Bowed 'neath her load of misery. Her deeply dark, yet tearless eye Was prayer-like lifted to the sky, As she, in piteous accents wild, Bewailed her dying vagrant child.

It was a Gipsy's form and face Who in that wild and lonely place, Had sat her down in madness, o'er The fever'd creature that she bore. Oh! 'twas a saddening sight, to see The mother's yearning agony, As she, in piteous accents wild, Bewailed her dying vagrant child.

And see! she clasps, with trembling arm, In maniac hope to keep it warm, The Babe that ne'er again may stir, And yet that Babe was all to her. Where be her kindred? where its sire, To sooth her blighted brain of fire? Heard ye that piercing outcry wild? She knows 'tis dead—that Gipsy Child!