The Last Robin
Lyrics and Sonnets


by Ethelwyn Wetherald



 

POVERTY’S LOT.



POVERTY bought our little lot,
     Flooded with daisy blooms;
Poverty built our little cot
     And furnished all its rooms.

Yet Peace leans over Labor’s chair,

5

     Joys at the fireside throng,
While up and down on Poverty’s stair
     Love sings the whole day long. [Page 107]