One of the lost, polluted, base, defiled,
Yet once she slept, a little angel child.
And now she moves, sweet Gentian enters in,
And she is pure again and free from sin.
The dry, parched lips with innocence now speak,
And balmy breezes fan the fevered cheek.
The little white-washed cottage standeth near
And mother’s voice sounds sweetly on her ear,
While from the fields the scent of new mown hay
Comes strong and lusty at the close of day.