"O! feyther, feyther!" cried the young peasant, whose heart seemed overcharged with grief, "It be a cold, raw night—ye wou'dna kick a cur from the door to perish in the storm! Doant 'ee be hot and hasty, feyther, thou art not uncharitable—On me knees!"—
"Psha!" exclaimed the enraged father, only exasperated by his remonstrances. "Whoy talk 'ee to me, son—I am deaf—deaf!—Mine own hand shall bar the door agen her!"—adding with bitterness—"let her die!"—and stepping past his prostrate son, was about to execute his purpose—when, a young girl, whose once gay and flimsy raiment was drenched and stained, and torn by the violence of the storm, appeared at the door. The old man recoiled with a shudder—she was as pale as death—and her trembling limbs seemed scarcely able to support her—a profusion of light brown hair hung dishevelled and in disorder about her neck and shoulders, and added to her forlorn appearance. She stretched forth her arms and pronounced the name of "Father!" but further utterance was prevented by the convulsive sobs that heaved her bosom.
"Mary—woman!" cried the old man, trembling—"Call me not feyther—thou art none of mine—thou hast no feyther now—nor I a daughter—thou art a serpent that hath stung the bosom that cherished thee! Go to the fawning villain—the black-hearted sycophant that dragged thee from our arms—from our happy home to misery and pollution—go, and bless him for breaking thy poor old feyther's heart!"
Overcome by these heart-rending reproaches, the distressed girl fainted; but the strong arm of the young Cotter supported her—for her tender-hearted youth, moved by his fallen sister's sorrows, had ventured again to intercede.
"Hah! touch not her defiled and loathsome body," cried the old man—"thrust her from the door, and let her find a grave where she may. Boy! wilt thou dare disobey me?" and he raised his clenched hand, while anger flashed from his eye.
"Strike! feyther—strike me!" said the poor lad, bursting into tears—"fell me to the 'arth! Kill me, an thou wilt—I care not—I will never turn my heart agen poor Mary!—Bean't she my sister? Did thee not teach me to love her?—Poor lass!—she do want it all now, feyther—for she be downcast and broken-hearted!—Nay, thee art kind and good, feyther—know thee art—I zee thine eyes be full o' tears—and thee—thee woant cast her away from thee, I know thee woant. Mother, speak to 'un; speak to sister Mary too—it be our own Mary! Doant 'ee kill her wi' unkindness!"
The old man, moved by his affectionate entreaties, no longer offered any opposition to his son's wishes, but hiding his face in his hands, he fled from the affecting scene to an adjoining room.
Her venerable mother having recovered from the shock of her lost daughter's sudden appearance, now rose to the assistance of the unfortunate, and by the aid of restoratives brought poor Mary to the full sense of her wretchedness. She was speedily conveyed to the same humble pallet, to which, in the days of her innocence and peace, she had always retired so light-hearted and joyously, but where she now found a lasting sleep—an eternal repose!—Yes, poor Mary died!—and having won the forgiveness and blessing of her offended parents, death was welcome to her.—Absurdities: in Prose and Verse.