by W.
A Rhyme for Young Readers.
Originally published in The Quiver (John Cassell) vol.1 #4 (14 Oct 1865).
"O please, ma'am, will you buy my matches?"
Cries little Gerty, as she stands
And stretches out her laden hands—
Hands covered o'er with dirt and scratches.
Dirt! yet we must not blame poor Gerty,
No one has taught her to be clean;
She would not know what you would mean,
To say 'tis naughty to be dirty.
She has not known a careful mother,
Her father she has never seen;
He lies beneath the ocean green,
And with him lies her only brother.
Last winter Gerty had a tumble,
And'o'er her rolled a carriage wheel;
You know how snow will noise conceal,
And Gerty did not hear the rumble.
They lifted her upon a stretcher;
She to the hospital was borne;
But when the wounds and pain were gone,
No loving friend she had to fetch her.
Upon her crutches forth she hobbled;
She had not where to look for bread—
She had not where to lay her head—
No wonder she was mazed and troubled.
But not for long; she begged some pennies,
And bought of matches quite a store;
And honest lives, though low and poor,
When she could steal the worth of guineas.
So, though she's low, and poor, and dirty,
She has a good heart under all;
And in God's sight how poor and small
Some rich ones look beside poor Gerty!