If so be I don’t pray proper, Lord, forgive me; for you see
I can talk all right to ’osses, but I’m nervous like with Thee.”
Ne’er a line came to the cottage from the woman who had flown;
Joe the baby died that winter, and the man was left alone.
Ne’er a bitter word he uttered, but in silence kissed the rod,
Saving what he told his horses, saving what he told his God.
Far away in mighty London rose the woman into fame,
For her beauty won men’s homage, and she prospered in her shame;
Quick from lord to lord she flitted, higher still each prize she won,
And her rivals paled beside her, as the stars beside the sun.