Ii

In a dim and dingy attic, Away from the pomp and glare, A widow sits by a flickering lamp, Bowed down by toil and care.

On her toil-worn hand her weary head, At her feet a shoe half-bound, On the bare, brown table a loaf of bread, And hunger and want around.

By her side at the broken window, With her rosy feet all bare, Her little one carols a Christmas tune To the chimes on the frosty air.

And the mother dreams of the by-gone years And their merry Christmas-bells, Till her cheeks are wet with womanly tears, And a sob in her bosom swells.