Select Poetry.

Thames Star, Volume XI, Issue 3709, 13 November 1880, Page 1

Select Poetry.

THB ELEVENTH HOUR.

Whist, sir! would ye plaise to apart aisy, An' ait ye down there by the dare ? Bhe sleeps, suy so light and so restless Bhe heart iverv step on the fl ire. What ails berP God knows!' she's bin weakly For months, an' the heat drives her wild, , The sammer has wasted an'worn her Till ehe's only the ghost of a child. All I have • Yet, the is; an', God help me! I'd three little darlints betide, At purty as iver ye see, sir, But wan by wan they dhrooped like an' died, What was it that tuk thim ? yer atkin', Why poverty, thure, a*', ao doubt; They perished for food an' fresh air, sir, Like flowers dhried up in the drought. It was dreadful to lose then ? Ah, was it! It teemed like my heartstrings would break; But there's days, what wid want an' wid sorrow, I'm thankful they're gone—for their take! Their father ? Well, sir, saints forgive me! It's a foul tongue that lowers it's own. But wh,at wid the sthrikes an' the liquor . I'd betther be sthrugglin' alone. Do I waat to keep this one ? The darlint. IbClast an' dearest of all! Share yer niver a father yerself, sir, Or ye wouldn't be atkin' at all! What is that? Milk an' focd for the baby! A docther an* uedioine free! Yer bontin* out all the sick childer An' poor toilin' mothers like me! God blej| you! an' thim at hare tint ye! A new life ye've given to me. Shure, sir, won't you look in the cradle At the,colleen ye've saved 'fore you co? Oh, Motfier o' Mercies have pity! Oh, darlint, why couldn't you wait ? Dead! dead! an' the help in the dureway Too late! Oh, my baby! too late!