The Missionary's Story Poem by Mary Eliza Ireland

Hard were her hands, and brown;
Coarsest of stuff her gown:
Sod hut her home.
Pale was her care-worn face,
Beauty and youth and grace
Long since have flown.

Stern was her lot in life;
She was a drunkard's wife;
And forests drear
Shut not temptation out;
Strong drink was sold and bought;
Poor pioneer!

Slave he to demon rum;
Houses and lands all gone;
Want came by stealth.
Yet her scant fare she shared
With me, who worse have fared
In homes of wealth.

Stranger was I to her
Save as Christ's messenger;
And for His sake
She, all her little store
Wishing it were but more,-
Bade me to take.

Oh like the widow's mite,
Given for love of right,
May it be blest.
When her last hour has come,
May angels bear her home,
Ever to rest.