To light the love-glow in the mother’s eyes.
“Come, Rosy, come!” She turned, and down the road
The plaintive voice grew fainter on my ear;
Caressing tones—not mixed with prattle now,
But full of loving words—I still could hear.
I, wondering, asked a gossip at my door;
He told the story—all there was to tell:
A little mound the village churchyard bore;
And this, he said, is only Crazy Nell.
Joseph Whitton.