THE DRUNKARD’S CHILD.
FOUNDED ON ONE OF J. B. GOUGH’S THRILLING ANECDOTES.
“I cannot spare that book, papa—
Take all I have beside;
But that my poor, my dear mamma,
Gave me the day she died,
“And bade me keep it for her sake;—
If all your money’s spent
Sell all my toys, but do not take
My little Testament!
“She told me that I there might read
The way to heaven above.
I cannot part with it indeed!—
Her last dear gift of love.”
There stood beside that couch of straw,
All haggard, wretched, wild,
The drunkard father, staggering o’er
His sweet but dying child.
And as she spoke, a father’s tear
Stole down his bloated cheek;
And thus he cried, “Hush, Fanny dear!
’Tis not your book I seek.
“But oh! this cursed, burning thirst,
Has made me mad, I think;
I take your book!—I’d perish first—
And yet I must have drink!—
“Come, child! no more that sad pale look!—
There—dry your weeping eye,
I would not steal your little book
For all the world—not I!”
Her sighs and sobs are now at rest,
For see! the maiden sleeps;—
But closely to her little book,
The Testament, she keeps.
There bathed in beauteous tears she lay,
Like some half drooping flower,
Cropt ere the sun had kissed away
The grief of evening’s hour.