The gas lamp's glare fell on her face, But lighted not her languid eyes; And down her pallid cheeks, the trace Of tears, bespoke her miseries; With hunger gnawing at her heart, She shivered, as the night wind blew Her soiled and ragged clothes apart; Till all insensible she grew, And sinking in unblessed sleep, Forgot to cry, "Hot Corn," and weep.
Alone, so young, how came she there? To sell hot corn so late at night; Had she no friends, no home, nowhere To rest, and hide her from the sight Of the rude world? No mother? Hush! That holy name is not the one For Katy's parent. Woman! blush For thy lost sister; blush to own That thou canst ever fall so low, To plunge thy children into woe.
Within that mother's heart, the light Of love was quench'd, quench'd by the flood, The damning flood, whose waters blight All that is left of human good: And in her breast that demon reigned, Who "Give, give, give!" is ever crying; Demanding still to be maintained, While all within, around, is dying; Outpouring in its baneful breath, Destruction, sorrow, sin and death.
The lips which should have kiss'd away Her daughter's tears, dealt curses forth; The hand which should have been her stay, Was but the minister of wrath; Blind to her wants, deaf to her prayers, Regardless of the driving storm, To open streets and midnight airs, She drove that little shrinking form, To earn a dram! In shame and scorn With famished lips to cry, "Hot corn!"
"Hot corn, hot corn!"--night after night, More faint and feeble grew that voice-- Still fiercely burned each glaring light, Still music bade the town rejoice; The ceaseless footsteps passed along, Up came the wild discordant tones, The voices of the thoughtless throng,-- The bounding wheels rolled o'er the stones,-- But midst the din, the rush, the roar, Poor Katy's cry is heard no more.
In one of those dark, noisome cells, The wretched call their home, she lies All motionless; the icy spells Of death, have closed those weary eyes; She speaks not now. Alas! how dread! That calm reproachful silence, when Beside the wronged and injured dead, We kneel in vain! Low in that den Behold the stricken mother cower; Grown sober in one fearful hour.
She calls her, "Katy, darling!"--peers Into that pale and sunken face, She bathes her senseless brow with tears, Sees on those bruised limbs, the trace Of her own cruelty;--again She calls, and prays for one last word, Of blest forgiveness;--all in vain, The answering voice no more is heard, The soulless clay alone is there, And fell remorse, and dark despair.