Jane Smith

I journeyed, on a winter's day, 
   Across the lonely wold;
No bird did sing upon the spray, 
   And it was very cold.

I had a coach with horses four,
   Three white (though one was black), 
And on they went the common o'er,
   Nor swiftness did they lack.

A little girl ran by the side,
   And she was pinched and thin.
'Oh, please, sir, do give me a ride!
   I'm fetching mother's gin.'

'Enter my coach, sweet child,' said I; 
  'For you shall ride with me,
And I will get you your supply 
  Of mother's eau-de-vie.'

The publican was stern and cold, 
  And said:'Her mother's score
Is writ, as you shall soon behold, 
  Behind the bar-room door!'

I blotted out the score with tears, 
  And paid the money down,
And took the maid of thirteen years 
  Back to her mother's town.

And though the past with surges wild 
  Fond memories may sever,
The vision of that happy child 
  Will leave my spirit never!

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