THE BROKEN CRUTCH.

A Tale.

"I tell you, Peggy," said a voice behind
A hawthorn hedge, with wild briars thick entwin'd,
Where unseen trav'llers down a shady way
Journey'd beside the swaths of new-mown hay,
"I tell you, Peggy, 'tis a time to prove
Your fortitude, your virtue, and your love.
From honest poverty our lineage sprung,
Your mother was a servant quite as young;--
You weep; perhaps _she_ wept at leaving home,
Courage, my girl, nor fear the days to come.
Go still to church, my Peggy, plainly drest,
And keep a living conscience in your breast;
Look to yourself, my lass, the maid's best fame,
Beware, nor bring the Meldrums into shame:
Be modest, to the voice of age attend,
Be honest, and you'll always find a friend:
Your uncle Gilbert, stronger far than I,
Will see you safe; on him you must rely;
I've walk'd too far; this lameness, oh! the pain;
Heav'n bless thee, child! I'll halt me back again;
But when your first fair holiday may be,
Rise with the lark, and spend your hours with me."