Page:Field Poems of Childhood.djvu/77

 Unto a mother's breast.

I was the wretched child

Was fetched that dismal morn—

'Twere better die than be (as I)

To life of misery born!

And hadst thou borne me on

Still farther up the town,

A king I'd be of high degree,

And wear a golden crown!

For yonder lives the prince

Was brought that selfsame day:

How happy he, while—look at me!

I toil my life away!

And see my little boy—

To what estate he's born!

Why, when I die no hoard leave I

But poverty and scorn.

And thou hast done it all—

I might have been a king

And ruled in state, but for thy hate,

Thou base, perfidious thing!

Since, cobbler, thou dost speak

Of one thou lovest well,

Hear of that king what grievous thing

This very morn befell.