THE ORPHAN FLOWER-GIRL
“My flowers—who’ll buy?” cried a sweet little child,
An orphan left friendless and poor;
“I’ve roses and pinks, and sweet-brier wild,
And heaven will bless you thrice o’er.
Then pray buy my roses, indeed they’re not dear;
Each bud shall be moistened with gratitude’s tear.
“Oh, pray buy my roses—for hard is my fate,
My poor little sisters want bread;
Bestow but a mite, before ’tis too late;