The Scape-Goat
She lived in the hovel alone, the beautiful child.
Alas, that it should have been so!
But her father died of the drink, and the sons were wild,
And where was the girl to go ?
Her brothers left her alone in the lonely hut.
Ah, it was dreary at night
When the wind whistled right thro' the door that never
would shut,
And sent her sobbing with fright.
She never had slept alone ; when the stifling room
Held her, brothers, father — all.
Ah, better their violence, better their threats, than the
gloom
That now hung close as a pall!
When the hard day's washing was done, it was sweeter to stand
Hearkening praises and vows,
To feel her cold fingers kept warm in a sheltering hand.
Than crouch in the desolate house.
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