WINDS blow cold in the bright March weather,
Yet I heard her sing in the street to-day,
The tattered garments scarce hung together
Round her tiny form as she turned away;
She was too little to know or care
Why she and her mother were singing there.
Skies are fair when the buds are springing,
When the March sun rises up fresh and strong,
And a little maid, with her mother, singing,
Smiled in my face as she skipped along,
She was too happy to wonder why
She laughed and sang as she passed me by.