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Vainly
she weeps - she there must stay, And toil and stoop the live-long
day In gathering sticks within the wood, With many blows, but little
food. The nights were cold, without a bed, On which to rest her
weary head; Poor Ellen sick and feeble grew, Her cheeks they lost
their rosy hue; At last too ill her head to raise, Upon the cold
damp ground she lays, And cruel gipseys, in a fright, Forsook her
in this wretched plight. A neat old woman crossed the wood, To reach
her cot that near it stood; Rescued the child, I'm glad to tell,
Convey'd her home and nursed her well.
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