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Slave Girl Mourning Her Father.


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Parodied from Mrs. Sigourney by G. W. C.

They say I was but four years old
When father was away;
Yet I have never seen his face
Since that sad parting day,
He went where brighter flowrets grow
Beneath the Southern skies;
Oh who will show me on the map
Where that far country lies?


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I begged him, "father, do not go!
For, since my mother died,
I love no one so well as you;"
And, clinging to his side,
The tears came gushing down my cheeks
Until my eyes were dim;
Some were in sorrow for the dead,
And some in love for him.

He knelt and prayed of God above,
"My little daughter spare,
And let us both here meet again,
O keep her in thy care."
He does not come! — I watch for him
At evening twilight grey,
Till every shadow wears his shape,
Along the grassy way.

I muse and listen all alone,
When stormy winds are high,
And think I hear his tender tone,
And call, but no reply;
And so, I've done these four long years,
Without a friend or home.
Yet every dream of hope is vain, —
Why don't my father come?

Father, — dear father, are you sick,
Upon a stranger shore? —
The people say it must be so —
O send to me once more,
And let your little daughter come,
To soothe your restless bed.
And hold the cordial to your lips.
And press your aching head.

Alas! — I fear he is dead! —
Who will my trouble share?
Or tell me where his form is laid,
And let me travel there?
By mother's tomb I love to sit,
Where the green branches wave;
Good people! help a friendless child
To find her father's grave.