Now the tall corn is waving o'er the mountain and glen, And the sickle is reaping both the corn and the men; And the child that was sleeping where the lamps dimly shone, Like the corn, now is with'ring, in the vale all alone. "Hot corn!" she was crying, in the night, all alone, "Hot corn! here's your nice hot corn!" in the grave all alone.
Where the chill rain was falling, sat the poor child asleep; Where the lights nightly burning, city vigils help keep-- Where the ague was creeping through the blood and the bone Of the child that was sleeping on the curb-stone alone. "Hot corn!" she was crying, in the night all alone, "Hot corn! here's your nice hot corn!" in the grave all alone.
In a dark room lonely, lay the child all awake, With a voice wildly crying, "Will he come, for my sake?" Then a good man was praying, while to her dimly shone, Poor fading light--ceases burning--and with God she's alone. "Hot corn!" she was crying, in the night all alone, "Hot corn! here's your nice hot corn!" in the grave all alone.
In the dark grave sleeping, while poor Katy's at rest, While the wild storm raging, ever sweeps o'er her breast-- While the mourners are weeping for the dead passed away, Let us pledge by the living that the cause we will stay. "Hot corn!" she was crying, in the night all alone, "Hot corn! here's your nice hot corn," in the grave all alone.
Among the many poetical effusions which have been elicited by reading the story of "Little Katy," I think the following, which appeared in the New York Tribune, will be read with pleasure. It is from the pen of Mrs. B. F. Foster, of New York:--
With dizzy whirl, on rushed the wheels Along the City's murky street, And music's light, inspiring peals Rang out from folly's gay retreat; And busy footsteps hurried past, And human voices, harsh and wild, Commingling, floated on the blast; When the shrill accents of a child Rose mid the din, in tones forlorn, And cried, "Come, buy hot corn, hot corn!"
Like some sad spirit wafted by, A stranger to the ways of earth, Came up that little plaintive cry-- Sweet discord to the sounds of mirth. Unheeded by the reckless crowd, There stood a girl, a pale, wan thing, And 'neath her bosom's tattered shroud There lurk'd an age of suffering; While e'en till night approached the morn, In feebler voice, she cried, "Hot Corn!"