Classic Poem

Dear Ellen, when you read these lines, O, throw them not aside!
O, do not laugh at them in scorn, or turn away in pride!
I know 'tis a presumptuous thought for me to thee to write,
For, Ellen, feeble are the words that my pen can indite.

Had fortune smiled upon thy birth and favoured thee with wealth,
Then, Ellen, I would be content with praying for your health;
But since I know that you, like me, are forced your bread to win,
Exposed to many dangers 'mid the factory's smoke and din,

I know you have a feeling heart—that you will not be stern,
Nor deem it curiosity your history to learn;
Although I never saw thy face, yet I have read thy lays,
And 'tis my earnest prayer for thee that thou'lt see many days

A year ago this very month I read your touching song—
Your last farewell to your betrothed, just after he had gone;
My thoughts were with you ever since—I thought of writing then,
But courage I could not call forth, and fear held back my pen.

Hast thou no mother, Ellen dear, to know thy griefs and fears,
No sister who hath shared thy joys through all thy childish years,
No brother's merry coaxing ways to welcome thee at home,
No father dear, in his arm-chair—are all those loved ones gone?

I know your heart is sensitive, and that you ill can brook
The sneer from those you work beside, the cold contemptuous look;
Tho' I have met with some of those, the number is but few—
The most of those I work beside are friends sincere and true.

I rise each morn at six o'clock, and pray that God will guide
Me through the duties of the day, whatever ill betide;
And when at night I lay me down, in calm and quiet repose,
I sleep the dreamless sleep of health contentment only knows.

For, dearest, in this world, you know, the sun's not always shining,
But underneath each heavy cloud there lies a silver lining;
Although thou art companionless, with no friend save thy cat,
I trust 'twill not be so with thee when thy betrothed comes back.

Thine eyes with love shall sparkling beam when he comes back again
To claim the hand thou promised him before he crossed the main;
Then I will wake my feeble muse, and let my song be heard,
A marriage sonnet unto him—St Ninian's noble bard.