Strange little waif of the slums, Thrifty and business-like, too, Plying your trade with the rest Of the ragged, outcast crew; Rushing about in the throng, Calling your wares in the cold; O child, such a heart as yours Is made of God's purest gold! Brave little buffeted ship, Battered and blown in life's gale, Where is your port in the storm? To what refuge do you sail? Born of some drab of the street Down where the red beacons burn, May God guide ever your way-- Free from sin's shoals may you turn. Where do you live--'neath the street, Or attic above the stair? Where'er it be, little maid, My heart goes out to you there. Some pass who turn a deaf ear To your shrill voice when you call; But there's One hears, never fear, Whose love is greater than all. He alone hears your low sob, Lonely at night in your bed, With none to kiss you to sleep Or smooth the curls of your head. Sometimes in dreams do you see Visions of dainties high piled? Sometime may that dream be true, Tired-out, motherless child. O mothers, kissing to rest, Praying to God o'er your dears, Pray for these waifs of the world, Unmothered in their young years. Pray, too, that on that dread day When judgments fall on earth's sons, Censure-free we then may stand, Uncharged by these little ones. When for deeds done in the flesh Each soul its place is assigned, Pray no child may accuse you Of being cold or unkind. One passed you last night at dusk, One whom the world brands with shame; Say, was it then all her fault? God, who knows, may not so blame. Once as this child of the street She strove for bread, pure of heart, Till hope died in her young breast, When mankind failed in its part. And now if sinning she goes, Fighting her battle alone, Remember, she asked for bread, And the world gave her a stone. Dark is the world with its griefs, But bright is joy's pathway wide, And Sorrow smiles through her tears When Charity walks by her side. Derelicts lost in the dark, Strange ships that pass in the night, Guided by Love's lamp aglow, God's harbour find by its light. A TOAST ON THE OCCASION OF A DEPARTMENTAL BANQUET To every branch of this great tree, That shelters you and shelters me, Let's quaff a toast, and with a song, Drink to the King--may he live long. With quip and jest, with speech and tale, In fellowship let us regale. Here's to our chief! here's to each soul! Toast with a will, fill high the bowl! To comrades present, absent friends, Drink while the curling smoke ascends; And then one crowning toast we'll raise To woman and her gentle ways. O! lovely ladies, you who wait For tardy husbands homing late; I crave you, by your fair renown, Forgive all these who here sit down.