Volume I Part 34 (1/2)

II

First, a fool of a boy ran her down with a cart.

Then, her fool of a father--a blacksmith by trade - Why the deuce does he tell us it half broke his heart?

His heart!--where's the leg of the poor little maid!

Well, that's not enough; they must push her downstairs, To make her go crooked: but why count the list?

If it's right to suppose that our human affairs Are all order'd by heaven--there, bang goes my fist!

III

For if angels can look on such sights--never mind!

When you're next to blaspheming, it's best to be mum.

The parson declares that her woes weren't designed; But, then, with the parson it's all kingdom-come.

Lose a leg, save a soul--a convenient text; I call it Tea doctrine, not savouring of G.o.d.

When poor little Molly wants 'chastening,' why, next The Archangel Michael might taste of the rod.

IV

But, to see the poor darling go limping for miles To read books to sick people!--and just of an age When girls learn the meaning of ribands and smiles!

Makes me feel like a squirrel that turns in a cage.

The more I push thinking the more I revolve: I never get farther:- and as to her face, It starts up when near on my puzzle I solve, And says, 'This crush'd body seems such a sad case.'

V

Not that she's for complaining: she reads to earn pence; And from those who can't pay, simple thanks are enough.

Does she leave lamentation for chaps without sense?

Howsoever, she's made up of wonderful stuff.

Ay, the soul in her body must be a stout cord; She sings little hymns at the close of the day, Though she has but three fingers to lift to the Lord, And only one leg to kneel down with to pray.

VI

What I ask is, Why persecute such a poor dear, If there's Law above all? Answer that if you can!

Irreligious I'm not; but I look on this sphere As a place where a man should just think like a man.

It isn't fair dealing! But, contrariwise, Do bullets in battle the wicked select?