Poor Kid

 Mumsie and Dad are raven dark
 And I am lily blonde.

''Tis strange,' I once heard nurse remark,
 'You do not correspond.
'
And yet they claim me as their own,
 Born of their flesh and bone.


To doubt their parenthood I dread,
 But now to girlhood grown,
The thought is haunting in my head
 That I am not their own:
If so, my radiant bloom of youth
 Would wither in the truth.


'Twould give me anguish deep to know
 A fondling babe was I;
And that a maid in wedless woe
 Left me to live or die:
I'd rather Mother lied and lied
 To save my pride.


I love them both and they love me;
 I am their all, they say.

Yet though the sweetest home have we,
 To know I'm theirs I pray.

If not, please dear ones, never tell .
 .
 .

 The truth would be of hell.

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