THE FEMALE VAGRANT. My Father was a good and pious man, bed, To lisp, he made me kneel beside my The suns of twenty summers danced along,— Ah! little marked how fast they rolled away: And ill could I the thought of such sad parting brook. But, when he had refused the proffered gold, To cruel injuries he became a prey, Sore traversed in whate'er he bought and sold: They dealt most hardly with him, and he tried We sought a home where we uninjured might abide. |