Dying to Win.Fierce blows the gale and cold,Loudly the windows[27]rattle;Why, the stars seemed never half so bright.Hark![28]’Twas a bell that tolled—There, again! must I battleThrough another dreadful winter night?Better by far to die.Who[29]in this mighty cityWastes a thought on such a wretched life?Who heeds my weary sigh?Who sheds a tear in pity?All alone I wage[30]the bitter strife.Bright gleams yon chandelier,[31]Gay sound the reckless voices;And how tempting warm the red grate glows!No![32]rather perish here—Ah, no—my soul rejoices,[33]For I triumph spite of all my woes.Now, that I’ve made my vow,Who[34]comes to help me keep it?Are the saints that preach asleep or dead?Ripe is the harvest now,Yet comes there none to reap it.Not a cent![35]no home; no crust of bread.Fie,[36]upon hearts so cold!Not one will deign to aid me;And my own sex turn[37]me off with scorn;Sneer at me; call me bold;Taunt me, and then upbraid me—O, my God,[38]how can I wait till morn?Mother, is that you[39]there?Surely,[40]I must be dreaming—Do not leave me, mother;[41]take me home!Oh, how keen[42]bites the air!Yonder[43]the dawn is gleaming.It is I, your child: Oh, mother,[44]come!Sleepy, indeed, am I—Wait till I kneel[45]down, mother—Now[46]I lay me down to sleep—keep off—[47]Help! help! help! I shall die—Give me some air—I smother!I am saved![48]Now let the cold world scoff.* * * * *Fierce blows the gale and cold,Loudly the windows[49]rattle,And the stars are paling[50]out with fright:Oh, ’tis a tale oft told:Done is the hard-fought battle—And a weary soul has said good-night.—Geo.M. Vickers.Gestures.[27]H. O.[28]Hand raised to listen.[29]H. O.[30]Clasp hands.[31]H. F.[32]B. V. H. F.[33]A. O.[34]H. O.[35]D. L.[36]P. Ind. H. O.[37]Ver. H. L.[38]Look up.[39]B. H. F.[40]Hand to brow.[41]B. H. F.[42]Shiver.[43]Ind. H. O.[44]B. H. F.[45]Kneel.[46]Clasp hands.[47]B. Par. H. O.[48]B. A. O.[49]H. O.[50]V. A. Sweep.
Fierce blows the gale and cold,Loudly the windows[27]rattle;Why, the stars seemed never half so bright.Hark![28]’Twas a bell that tolled—There, again! must I battleThrough another dreadful winter night?Better by far to die.Who[29]in this mighty cityWastes a thought on such a wretched life?Who heeds my weary sigh?Who sheds a tear in pity?All alone I wage[30]the bitter strife.Bright gleams yon chandelier,[31]Gay sound the reckless voices;And how tempting warm the red grate glows!No![32]rather perish here—Ah, no—my soul rejoices,[33]For I triumph spite of all my woes.Now, that I’ve made my vow,Who[34]comes to help me keep it?Are the saints that preach asleep or dead?Ripe is the harvest now,Yet comes there none to reap it.Not a cent![35]no home; no crust of bread.Fie,[36]upon hearts so cold!Not one will deign to aid me;And my own sex turn[37]me off with scorn;Sneer at me; call me bold;Taunt me, and then upbraid me—O, my God,[38]how can I wait till morn?Mother, is that you[39]there?Surely,[40]I must be dreaming—Do not leave me, mother;[41]take me home!Oh, how keen[42]bites the air!Yonder[43]the dawn is gleaming.It is I, your child: Oh, mother,[44]come!Sleepy, indeed, am I—Wait till I kneel[45]down, mother—Now[46]I lay me down to sleep—keep off—[47]Help! help! help! I shall die—Give me some air—I smother!I am saved![48]Now let the cold world scoff.* * * * *Fierce blows the gale and cold,Loudly the windows[49]rattle,And the stars are paling[50]out with fright:Oh, ’tis a tale oft told:Done is the hard-fought battle—And a weary soul has said good-night.—Geo.M. Vickers.
Fierce blows the gale and cold,Loudly the windows[27]rattle;Why, the stars seemed never half so bright.Hark![28]’Twas a bell that tolled—There, again! must I battleThrough another dreadful winter night?Better by far to die.Who[29]in this mighty cityWastes a thought on such a wretched life?Who heeds my weary sigh?Who sheds a tear in pity?All alone I wage[30]the bitter strife.Bright gleams yon chandelier,[31]Gay sound the reckless voices;And how tempting warm the red grate glows!No![32]rather perish here—Ah, no—my soul rejoices,[33]For I triumph spite of all my woes.Now, that I’ve made my vow,Who[34]comes to help me keep it?Are the saints that preach asleep or dead?Ripe is the harvest now,Yet comes there none to reap it.Not a cent![35]no home; no crust of bread.Fie,[36]upon hearts so cold!Not one will deign to aid me;And my own sex turn[37]me off with scorn;Sneer at me; call me bold;Taunt me, and then upbraid me—O, my God,[38]how can I wait till morn?Mother, is that you[39]there?Surely,[40]I must be dreaming—Do not leave me, mother;[41]take me home!Oh, how keen[42]bites the air!Yonder[43]the dawn is gleaming.It is I, your child: Oh, mother,[44]come!Sleepy, indeed, am I—Wait till I kneel[45]down, mother—Now[46]I lay me down to sleep—keep off—[47]Help! help! help! I shall die—Give me some air—I smother!I am saved![48]Now let the cold world scoff.* * * * *Fierce blows the gale and cold,Loudly the windows[49]rattle,And the stars are paling[50]out with fright:Oh, ’tis a tale oft told:Done is the hard-fought battle—And a weary soul has said good-night.—Geo.M. Vickers.
Fierce blows the gale and cold,
Loudly the windows[27]rattle;
Why, the stars seemed never half so bright.
Hark![28]’Twas a bell that tolled—
There, again! must I battle
Through another dreadful winter night?
Better by far to die.Who[29]in this mighty cityWastes a thought on such a wretched life?Who heeds my weary sigh?Who sheds a tear in pity?All alone I wage[30]the bitter strife.
Better by far to die.
Who[29]in this mighty city
Wastes a thought on such a wretched life?
Who heeds my weary sigh?
Who sheds a tear in pity?
All alone I wage[30]the bitter strife.
Bright gleams yon chandelier,[31]Gay sound the reckless voices;And how tempting warm the red grate glows!No![32]rather perish here—Ah, no—my soul rejoices,[33]For I triumph spite of all my woes.
Bright gleams yon chandelier,[31]
Gay sound the reckless voices;
And how tempting warm the red grate glows!
No![32]rather perish here—
Ah, no—my soul rejoices,[33]
For I triumph spite of all my woes.
Now, that I’ve made my vow,Who[34]comes to help me keep it?Are the saints that preach asleep or dead?Ripe is the harvest now,Yet comes there none to reap it.Not a cent![35]no home; no crust of bread.
Now, that I’ve made my vow,
Who[34]comes to help me keep it?
Are the saints that preach asleep or dead?
Ripe is the harvest now,
Yet comes there none to reap it.
Not a cent![35]no home; no crust of bread.
Fie,[36]upon hearts so cold!Not one will deign to aid me;And my own sex turn[37]me off with scorn;Sneer at me; call me bold;Taunt me, and then upbraid me—O, my God,[38]how can I wait till morn?
Fie,[36]upon hearts so cold!
Not one will deign to aid me;
And my own sex turn[37]me off with scorn;
Sneer at me; call me bold;
Taunt me, and then upbraid me—
O, my God,[38]how can I wait till morn?
Mother, is that you[39]there?Surely,[40]I must be dreaming—Do not leave me, mother;[41]take me home!Oh, how keen[42]bites the air!Yonder[43]the dawn is gleaming.It is I, your child: Oh, mother,[44]come!
Mother, is that you[39]there?
Surely,[40]I must be dreaming—
Do not leave me, mother;[41]take me home!
Oh, how keen[42]bites the air!
Yonder[43]the dawn is gleaming.
It is I, your child: Oh, mother,[44]come!
Sleepy, indeed, am I—Wait till I kneel[45]down, mother—Now[46]I lay me down to sleep—keep off—[47]Help! help! help! I shall die—Give me some air—I smother!I am saved![48]Now let the cold world scoff.* * * * *Fierce blows the gale and cold,Loudly the windows[49]rattle,And the stars are paling[50]out with fright:Oh, ’tis a tale oft told:Done is the hard-fought battle—And a weary soul has said good-night.—Geo.M. Vickers.
Sleepy, indeed, am I—
Wait till I kneel[45]down, mother—
Now[46]I lay me down to sleep—keep off—[47]
Help! help! help! I shall die—
Give me some air—I smother!
I am saved![48]Now let the cold world scoff.
* * * * *
Fierce blows the gale and cold,
Loudly the windows[49]rattle,
And the stars are paling[50]out with fright:
Oh, ’tis a tale oft told:
Done is the hard-fought battle—
And a weary soul has said good-night.
—Geo.M. Vickers.
Gestures.