Mon Accident!



Child of sin, and a broken vow,
Weakling-sad indeed was the plight of thee—
Crying wearily earnest thou—
There was wailing at the sight of thee—

Roseleaf fingers, stretched in appeal,
Broken and low, the sound of thy weeping—
She, thy mother it was could feel
Thy sorrow and take thee into her keeping.

Yea, for she yearned to thee at the sound,
The joy of a mother filled the heart of her—
When her soft arms clasped thy body round
And thy lip at her breast soothed the soul's smart of her.

There be only three of us little one—
Three of us and there is none other—
To hold together till Life is done—
Thou, and I, and She thy mother.