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A MOTHER'S CRY TO HER KIND
At a hovel window hot and bare,
A baby on her breast,
And hungry others fretting the air
That fetid scents obsessed,
A mother bitter and bent with want
Stared at a squalid street,
And said to herself—and to her kind—
With sickening repeat:
A baby on her breast,
And hungry others fretting the air
That fetid scents obsessed,
A mother bitter and bent with want
Stared at a squalid street,
And said to herself—and to her kind—
With sickening repeat:
"Don't ever have a child,
If you are married poor.
Don't ever have a little child
And make your misery sure.
For two will come, and three, and four,
To eat one crust of bread:
If you are married poor.
Don't ever have a little child
And make your misery sure.
For two will come, and three, and four,
To eat one crust of bread:
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