As I sit here alone, my head throbbing and aching,
And listen to hear if the keeper is near,
My thoughts they roam back to little ones taking
Caresses so sweet from a mother so dear—
Then I'm prompted to ask, "Do they think of me here?"
But when in my heart I feel a slight flutter,
I know there is sympathy somewhere about;
I then to myself do silently mutter,
"They have love for me still, and there is no doubt:"
Aye, love for me still, and this I've found out.
Then, down on the damp and cold stony floor,
Without either pillow, or blanket, or gown,
I stretch my weak body right close to the door,
And there, in sweet sleep, my vision to drown—
Then, when I awake, I'm not so cast down.
There is nothing so sweet and perfectly soothing
To one who is placed in a cold dungeon cell,
As the thought that yet there are dear ones a-wooing
The one who's imprisoned in a dark, dreary dell—
I muttered, while sleeping, "'Tis well, ah, 'tis well."
Then, when I awoke and proceeded to think,
Cold, stiffened and hungry, with tongue parched from thirst,
I seek but in vain for food and for drink,
But bread and poor water, the same as at first—
Aye, dry bread and bad water, the same as at first.