We were all sore and broken and keen on sleep,
Tumours and hearts and dropsies, there we lay,
Weary of night and wearier of day,
With no more health in us than rotten sheep.
Then, tossed to us on some intangible deep,
Alicia came, and each man learnt to pray
That Providence would please find out a way
To still or abate the voice with which she would weep.
God's infinite mercy, how that child did cry,
In spite of bottle, bauble, peppermint, nurse!
The Tumour said he'd "tell the manager,"
The Dropsy mumbled forth his bitterest curse;
But still she wailed and wailed. And when we die
We shall be sainted for forgiving her.