THE FEMALE VAGRANT. My Father was a good and pious man, The suns of twenty summers danced along,— He loved his old hereditary nook, And ill could I the thought of such sad parting brook. But, when he had refused the proffered gold, To cruel injuries he became a prey, Sore traversed in whate'er he bought and sold: They dealt most hardly with him, and he tried We sought a home where we uninjured might abide. |