Crazy Kate Poem by Robert Anderson

Ah! who is she whose tresses wild,
Bespeak her sorrow's frantic child?
'Tis Kate, whose bosom fraught with woe,
Sweet peace again can never know;
Who, careless, wandering all day long,
Sings to herself this plaintive song:--
``Come Death! thou friend to the distrest,
Srike, strike, at once, this tortur'd breast,
And ease poor Kate, who cannot rest!''

In infancy, her father died:
And she, her mother's only pride,
Was forc'd (hard fate!) at plenty's door
The mite of pity to implore.
But soon, ah! soon an orphan left;
Of ev'ry stay, save Heaven, bereft;
In coarsest tatters but half--drest,
Without a home or place of rest,
The little roamer liv'd distrest.

Alas! that on life's thorny way,
There are who virtue will betray:
For in her youth, Kate lov'd too well,
And soon to love a victim fell!
Now robb'd of reason, all day long,
The wand'rer sings her plaintive song:--
``Come Death! thou friend to the distrest,
Strike, strike, at once, this tortur'd breast,
And ease poor Kate, who cannot rest!''