Robert Anderson Poems
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, ...
Near Lagan's banks, a mile from town,
A rural whiten'd cottage stands;
The hamlets, halls, and hills of Down,
And many a prospect it commands:
It fronts the road, where haughty pride
And honest poverty throng by;
But few they are who turn aside,
On this lone cot to cast an eye.