Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Orphan and Lord Linsey-Wolsey

The Orphan and Lord Linsey-Wolsey.

"Pity, my Lord, the wretched plight Of a lone orphan, faint and weary,No home by day, no bed by night, Exposed to tempests wild and weary;

"I have no friend—I have no food, Alas! I know not where to wander;But I was told you folks were good, Who roll in wealth and shine in grandeur."

"Young gipsy, if your tale be true, Say—where your parents' life departed?""My father died at Waterloo, My mother drooped quite broken-hearted.

"She sought my sire among the dead, And sunk upon his bosom gory."—"Oh—if they died on honour's bed, My child, they're covered o'er with glory!"

"And what is glory, my good Lord? Will it relieve the orphan's hunger?A shelter, food, and clothes afford? O say—or I can't live much longer!"

"The Nation, child, will see you fed, Posterity will learn your story;Your parents died in honour's bed— And they are covered o'er with glory."

He said—and with a hasty pace From the lone orphan whistling parted,The tears bedewed her pallid face— And down she sunk—half broken-hearted.

Then to her aid a soldier flew, Who had o'erheard her artless story,He knew her sire at Waterloo, And saw him covered o'er with glory!

"Come, orphan, to my arms," he cried, "And I will screen thee from the weather,Close to my side thy parents died, And for their sakes we'll lodge together.

"I have a pension and a cot, Where thou shalt live till I am hoary—Here—wrap thee in this old watch-coat— 'Tis warmer than his Lordship's glory!"