Crazy Nell.“Come, Rosy, come!” I heard the voice and, lookedOut on the road that passed my window wide,And saw a woman and a fair-haired childThat knelt and picked the daisies at the side.The child ran quickly with its gathered prize,And, laughing, held it high above its head;A light glowed bright within the woman’s eyes,And in that light a mother’s love I read.She took the little hand, and both passed on;The prattle of the child I still could hear,Mixed with the woman’s fond, caressing tone,That came in loving words upon my ear.“Come, Rosy, come!” Years, many years had gone,But yet had left the recollection of that scene—The woman and the fair-haired child that kneltAnd picked the daisies on the roadside green.I looked. The old familiar road was there—A woman, wan and stooping, stood there too;And beckoned slowly, and with vacant stareThat fixed itself back where the daisies grew.“Come, Rosy, come!” I saw no fair-haired childRun from the daisies with its gathered prize;“Come, Rosy, come!” I heard no merry laughTo light the love-glow in the mother’s eyes.“Come, Rosy, come!” She turned, and down the roadThe plaintive voice grew fainter on my ear;Caressing tones—not mixed with prattle now,But full of loving words—I still could hear.I, wondering, asked a gossip at my door;He told the story—all there was to tell:A little mound the village churchyard bore;And this, he said, is only Crazy Nell.—Joseph Whitton.Actress“Fly, fly, beloved mistress, the devils of the mountains are upon us!”
“Come, Rosy, come!” I heard the voice and, lookedOut on the road that passed my window wide,And saw a woman and a fair-haired childThat knelt and picked the daisies at the side.The child ran quickly with its gathered prize,And, laughing, held it high above its head;A light glowed bright within the woman’s eyes,And in that light a mother’s love I read.She took the little hand, and both passed on;The prattle of the child I still could hear,Mixed with the woman’s fond, caressing tone,That came in loving words upon my ear.“Come, Rosy, come!” Years, many years had gone,But yet had left the recollection of that scene—The woman and the fair-haired child that kneltAnd picked the daisies on the roadside green.I looked. The old familiar road was there—A woman, wan and stooping, stood there too;And beckoned slowly, and with vacant stareThat fixed itself back where the daisies grew.“Come, Rosy, come!” I saw no fair-haired childRun from the daisies with its gathered prize;“Come, Rosy, come!” I heard no merry laughTo light the love-glow in the mother’s eyes.“Come, Rosy, come!” She turned, and down the roadThe plaintive voice grew fainter on my ear;Caressing tones—not mixed with prattle now,But full of loving words—I still could hear.I, wondering, asked a gossip at my door;He told the story—all there was to tell:A little mound the village churchyard bore;And this, he said, is only Crazy Nell.—Joseph Whitton.
“Come, Rosy, come!” I heard the voice and, lookedOut on the road that passed my window wide,And saw a woman and a fair-haired childThat knelt and picked the daisies at the side.The child ran quickly with its gathered prize,And, laughing, held it high above its head;A light glowed bright within the woman’s eyes,And in that light a mother’s love I read.She took the little hand, and both passed on;The prattle of the child I still could hear,Mixed with the woman’s fond, caressing tone,That came in loving words upon my ear.“Come, Rosy, come!” Years, many years had gone,But yet had left the recollection of that scene—The woman and the fair-haired child that kneltAnd picked the daisies on the roadside green.I looked. The old familiar road was there—A woman, wan and stooping, stood there too;And beckoned slowly, and with vacant stareThat fixed itself back where the daisies grew.“Come, Rosy, come!” I saw no fair-haired childRun from the daisies with its gathered prize;“Come, Rosy, come!” I heard no merry laughTo light the love-glow in the mother’s eyes.“Come, Rosy, come!” She turned, and down the roadThe plaintive voice grew fainter on my ear;Caressing tones—not mixed with prattle now,But full of loving words—I still could hear.I, wondering, asked a gossip at my door;He told the story—all there was to tell:A little mound the village churchyard bore;And this, he said, is only Crazy Nell.—Joseph Whitton.
“Come, Rosy, come!” I heard the voice and, looked
Out on the road that passed my window wide,
And saw a woman and a fair-haired child
That knelt and picked the daisies at the side.
The child ran quickly with its gathered prize,And, laughing, held it high above its head;A light glowed bright within the woman’s eyes,And in that light a mother’s love I read.
The child ran quickly with its gathered prize,
And, laughing, held it high above its head;
A light glowed bright within the woman’s eyes,
And in that light a mother’s love I read.
She took the little hand, and both passed on;The prattle of the child I still could hear,Mixed with the woman’s fond, caressing tone,That came in loving words upon my ear.
She took the little hand, and both passed on;
The prattle of the child I still could hear,
Mixed with the woman’s fond, caressing tone,
That came in loving words upon my ear.
“Come, Rosy, come!” Years, many years had gone,But yet had left the recollection of that scene—The woman and the fair-haired child that kneltAnd picked the daisies on the roadside green.
“Come, Rosy, come!” Years, many years had gone,
But yet had left the recollection of that scene—
The woman and the fair-haired child that knelt
And picked the daisies on the roadside green.
I looked. The old familiar road was there—A woman, wan and stooping, stood there too;And beckoned slowly, and with vacant stareThat fixed itself back where the daisies grew.
I looked. The old familiar road was there—
A woman, wan and stooping, stood there too;
And beckoned slowly, and with vacant stare
That fixed itself back where the daisies grew.
“Come, Rosy, come!” I saw no fair-haired childRun from the daisies with its gathered prize;“Come, Rosy, come!” I heard no merry laughTo light the love-glow in the mother’s eyes.
“Come, Rosy, come!” I saw no fair-haired child
Run from the daisies with its gathered prize;
“Come, Rosy, come!” I heard no merry laugh
To light the love-glow in the mother’s eyes.
“Come, Rosy, come!” She turned, and down the roadThe plaintive voice grew fainter on my ear;Caressing tones—not mixed with prattle now,But full of loving words—I still could hear.
“Come, Rosy, come!” She turned, and down the road
The plaintive voice grew fainter on my ear;
Caressing tones—not mixed with prattle now,
But full of loving words—I still could hear.
I, wondering, asked a gossip at my door;He told the story—all there was to tell:A little mound the village churchyard bore;And this, he said, is only Crazy Nell.—Joseph Whitton.
I, wondering, asked a gossip at my door;
He told the story—all there was to tell:
A little mound the village churchyard bore;
And this, he said, is only Crazy Nell.
—Joseph Whitton.
Actress“Fly, fly, beloved mistress, the devils of the mountains are upon us!”
“Fly, fly, beloved mistress, the devils of the mountains are upon us!”