THE CINDER KING
Who is it that sits in the kitchen and weeps,
While tick goes the clock, and the tabby-cat sleeps,—
That watches the grate, without ceasing to spy
Whether purses or coffins will out of it fly?
’Tis Betty; who saw the false tailor, Bob Scott,
Lead a bride to the altar, which bride she was not.
’Tis Betty, determined love from her to fling,