But for the child, when it should come, I knew— O, I was certain—what you meant to do. She said, “We quit the land, will it be right Or kind to leave you for a single night, Just on the chance that he will come down here, And sacrifice three hundred pounds a-year, And all his hopes and prospects fling away, And has already had his will, as one may say? Go you with us, and find beyond the seas, Men by the score to choose from, if you please.” I said my will and duty was to stay, Would they not help me to some decent way To wait, and surely near was now the day? Quite they refused; had they to let you know Written, I asked, to say we were to go? They told me yes; they showed a letter, too, Post-office order that had come from you. Alas, I could not read or write, they knew. I think they meant me, though they did not say, To think you wanted me to go away; O, love, I’m thankful nothing of the kind Ever so much as came into my mind. ‘To-morrow was the day that would not fail; For Adelaide the vessel was to sail. All night I hoped some dreadful wind would rise, And lift the seas and rend the very skies. All night I lay and listened hard for you. Twice to the door I went, the bolt I drew, And called to you; scarce what I did I knew. ‘Morning grew light, the house was emptied clear; The ship would go, the boat was lying near. They had my money, how was I to stay? Who could I go to, when they went away? Out in the streets I could not lie, you know. O dear, but it was terrible to go. Yet, yet I looked; I do not know what passed, I think they took and carried me at last. Twelve hours I lay, and sobbed in my distress; But in the night, let be this idleness, I said, I’ll bear it for my baby’s sake, Lest of my going mischief it should take, Advice will seek, and every caution use; My love I’ve lost—his child I must not lose. ‘How oft I thought, when sailing on the seas, Of our dear journey through the Hebrides, When you the kindest were and best of men: O, love, I did not love you right till then. O, and myself how willingly I blamed, So simple who had been, and was ashamed, So mindful only of the present joy, When you had anxious cares your busy mind to employ. Ah, well, I said, but now at least he’s free, He will not have to lower himself for me. He will not lose three hundred pounds a-year, In many ways my love has cost him dear. ‘Upon the passage, great was my delight, A lady taught me how to read and write. She saw me much, and fond of me she grew, Only I durst not talk to her of you. ‘We had a quiet time upon the seas, And reached our port of Adelaide with ease. At Adelaide my lovely baby came. Philip, he took his father’s Christian name, And my poor maiden surname, to my shame. O, but I little cared, I loved him so, ’Twas such a joy to watch and see him grow. At Adelaide we made no length of stay;