I saw an old cottage of clay,
And only of mud was the floor;
'Twas all falling into decay,
And snow drifted in at the door.
Yet there a poor family dwelt,
In a cottage so dismal and rude;
And though keenest hunger they felt,
They'd scarcely a morsel of food.
The children were crying for bread,
And to their poor mother would run—
"O, give us some breakfast," they said,
Alas! their poor mother had none.
O then let the wealthy and gay
But see such a hovel as this;
And in a poor cottage of clay,
Learn what real misery is.
The little that I have to spare,
I never will squander away;
While thousands of people there are
As poor and as wretched as they.
Jane Taylor.
THE CHATTERBOX.[7]
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