The Runaway Poem by Thomas Hill

A TRUE TALE.

Covered with ashes the little girl lay
In a cellar’s darkest part,
Wild in her fears she dared not breathe,
And she stilled her throbbing heart.

In the night she steadily crept forth,
By her hunger’s pangs impelled,
But the strong-locked doors from her eager hands
Their treasures all withheld.

Covered with ashes the girl is found
When the morning light appears,
And is to the master’s presence brought
To tell her tale of tears.

'I am owned, Sir, they say, by Colonel Y.,
Who lives a mile from here,
And I live with him a wretched life
Of anguish and of fear.

'Tight to my leg above my knee
A log of wood he chains,
And this I drag till it galls the flesh,
And my life is filled with pains.

'And if, thus clogged with a heavy load,
My motions are too slow,
He flogs me with a whip that brings
The blood at every blow.

'Three days ago my chain got loose,
So I slipped it off and ran,
And hid myself in your cellar, Sir;
O, help me if you can!

'A withered pear in your ashes I found,
‘T is all I’ve had to eat
For three days; but I’d sooner starve,
Than I’d my master meet.'

When the man heard the little girl,
At the 'lazy wench' he swore,
And sent her back to Colonel Y.,
To suffer as before.

But the shrieks of the beaten child
Reached a kinder neighbour’s ear,
And he bought the child to save its life
From anguish and from fear.

That child has now to a woman grown,
From bondage she is free,
And in her own neat cottage rears
A happy family.