Gloucester County Democrat. (Woodbury, N.J.) 1878-1932, 1881-09-29
That Swamp Of Death.

A CITY BALIADs
Yes it's straight and true good preacher every word
that you have spid
Do not think these tears unmarly-they're the FIRST
But they kind Of pressed and pounded on my aching
And they would not be let go Of and they gave me
extra pain.
I'm an ignorant tday-worker-work for food and rags
And hardly know the object Of the lifewe slave to
keep;
But knowwhen days are CHEEKY. or my heart is
made Of lead
know aorrow when see it-and know my child is
dead
No, she isn't much to look at Just planish bit OF
ofthe Of pershed children you are seeing every
day;
And how she could break life up. you'd be slow to
understand;
But she held mine. Mr. Preacher. in that little
withered hand.
am just laboring- sir, of the kind that digs
and delves,
But I've learned that human natures cannot stay in
by themselves
They win wander out for something. be it good be
it bad,
and my heart with hers had Settled and the girl was
all had
There are lots of pretty children. with form and
face more fine
Let their parents love and pet them-but thss little
one was mine.
There was one else to cling to when we two were
cut apart,
And it's rough-shis amputstion of the strong arms
of the hearti
lis consoling Mr. Preacher and it's paybe as youye
said
Goa loves children while they're living. and adopts
them when they're dead;
But my brain won't quit contrving. do the very best
lean,
That twas not Gods mercy took her. but the selfish
ness of man.
Why she lay here. faint and gasping. moaning for
bit of air.
shoked and strangled by the foul breath Of the
chimneys o1er there
For it climbed through every window, and 1t crept
beneath the door.
And tried to bar against it, and she only choked the
more.
She would lie here with the old look that poor
children somehow get;
She had learned to her patience, and she did not
CRY or fret;
But would lift her pale pnched face up full of early
grief and care.
And would whisper, "I am dying for little breath
of air.
If she'd gone out with the zephyrs, 'twouldnt have
seemed so hard to me.
Or among the cool fresh brcezes that come rushing
from the sea
But it's nothing less than murder when my darlings
every breath
Chokes and strangles with the poison from that
cursed swamp of death.
Oh it's not enough that such men own the very
ground we tread.
And the shelter that we crouch in. and the tools
that earn our bread;
They must put their blotted mortgage on the air and
on the sky.
And shut out our little heaven till ourchildren pine
and die!
Yes. we wear the cheapest clothing and our meals
are scant and brief,
And perhaps those fellows fancy there's cheaper
grade of grief;
But the people all around here, losing children,
friends and mates,
Can inform them that affection hasn't any under
rates.
crow and rest
And they trim EN- out with ribbons and they feed
'ern with the best;
But the love they gets insult to the God Of love
on high.
II to earn those ehildrsn's living some one else's
child must die.
I'm no grumbler at the rulers Of this free and
happy land.''
And don't go round explaining things do not
understand;
But there must be something treacherous in the
steering Of the law
Hsn GET dose Of poison out Of eUcry breath pe
dTGtc.
have talked too mush. good preacher and hope
you won't be vexed
But Pm going to make a sermon with that white /
lace for text;
And III preach it and I'll preach it. till set our
people wild
iGainst the heartless reckless grasping of the mel,
tpao killed my child.