Our village pride was Daisy May;
A fairy being, all too good
For earthly thought--as bright as day--
Just blooming into womanhood.

The low, sweet music of her voice,
Was like the sound of rippling rills;
It bade the listening heart rejoice,
And won as with enchanting spells.

Her eyes, like violets dipt in dew,
The soul enthralled with tender glance,
That gave to things a brighter hue,
And fringed our lives with new romance.

And from her forehead, white as pearl,
There hung a cloud of golden hair,
Whose lustre threw around the girl
A halo such as angels wear.

"Ah, me!" sighed many a village swain,
"Her love what bliss 'twould be to win
He whom the beauteous prize shall gain
Will open Heaven and enter in."

And as she passed with girlish grace
She met the glance of every eye,
Till blushes fluttered o'er her face
Like roses when the sun goes by.

But while in virgin life she walkt;
While sunlight round her footsteps played,
Abroad unbridled Passion stalked:
She loved, and, trusting, was betrayed.

And in the city, 'mongst the gay,
Far, far from friends who mourned her fate,
She flung Love's precious pearls away,
And woke, but woke, alas, too late.

She woke to find herself alone,
Save baby sleeping at her breast:
In that vast city all unknown,
Unloved, unpitied, and unblest.

Unloved by one who swore to love;
Unpitied by the cruel crowd;
Unblest by all save Him above,
To whom she prayed in grief aloud.

In fitful dreams she saw, and oft,
That humble cottage by the burn;
And heard a voice, so sweet and soft:
"Don't bolt the door, she may return."

"She may return." Delicious dream.
"Then mother loves me still," she sighed.
Ah! little knew she of the stream
Of tears that mother shed and dried.

Of weary watches in the night;
Of aching heart throughout the day;
Of darkened hours that once were bright,
Made glad by her now far away.

And when, in unforgiving mood,
The father urged his tenets stern,
How oft that mother tearful stood:
"Don't bolt the door, she may return."