Little Dorrit’S Playground

(A new public park called “Little Dorrit’s Playground” has just been opened in London, on the site of the old Marshalsea Prison, made famous by Dickens)

In a gloomy prison chamber Far away in London town, Once was born a little baby As the night came darkly down.

Frowning walls and iron doorways Hemmed her in from day to day; In a jail-yard, barred and stony, There alone her feet might stray.

Nothing knew she of the country, Singing birds and waving trees; Roofs and chimney-pots her forest, Songsters,--creak of rusty keys.

Yet the baby, weak and fragile, Nursed upon a prisoner’s knee, Grew a maiden, loving, helpful, Of a spirit brave and free.

Father, brother, wayward sister, All upon her strength might rest, And her own woes, light or heavy, Close she hid within her breast.

Ragged children hung upon her, Weak and helpless ones she fed, She,--a child who knew no childhood,-- She herself, who lacked for bread.

Gentle, patient “Little Dorrit,” Sweet thy name will ever be; Sweet it breathes as scent of flowers, Daughter of the Marshalsea!

Fallen is that gloomy prison Where thy life-work was begun; In its place is set a playground Free and open, bright with sun,

Named for thee. Ah, “Little Dorrit,” As they walk its grassy ways, Bend and hear them, London’s children,-- Hear them singing in thy praise.