To watch and feed the chickens at the door;
To see the drowsy pig cried not in vain;
To cheer in summer-time, or winter’s reign,
Her loving father. On returning home
From his day’s work, she’d say:—“Come, father, come.”
And, with an angel’s voice, so clear, so sweet—
“The supper’s ready, father, take your seat.”
Alas! her mother, Death had stol’n away
Just when ’twas needed most that she should stay
For her child’s good. The poor man’s heart was rent: