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 What made her look so stealthily both up and down the line, And quickly give the infant suck to still its puny whine?

Why was the sawmill not at work? why were the men away? They might have turned a woman from a woeful deed that day.

Why did the pine-scrub stand so thick? why was the place so lone That nothing but the soldier-birds might hear a baby moan?

Why doth the woman tear the child? why doth the mother take The infant from her breast, and weep as if her heart would break?

Why doth she moan, and grind her teeth, and weave an awful curse To fall on him who made of her a harlot—ay, and worse?