Merrily rang out the midnight bells,
Glad tidings of joy for all;
As crouched a little shiv'ring child,
Close by the churchyard wall.
The snow and sleet were pitiless,
The wind played with her rags,
She beat her bare, half frozen feet
Upon the heartless flags;
A tattered shawl she tightly held
With one hand, round her breast;
Whilst icicles shone in her hair,
Like gems in gold impressed,
But on her pale, wan cheeks, the tears
That fell too fast to freeze,
Rolled down, as soft she murmured,
'Do buy my matches, please.'

Wee, weak, inheritor of want!
She heard the Christmas chimes,
Perchance, her fancy wrought out dreams,
Of by-gone, better times,
The days before her mother died,
When she was warmly clad;
When food was plenty, and her heart
From morn to night was glad.

Her father now is lying sick,
She soon may be alone;
He cannot use his spade and pick,
As once he could have done.
The workhouse door stands open wide,
But should he enter there,
They'd tear his darling from his side
And place her anywhere.
They'd call it charitable help,
Though breaking both their hearts;
But then, when in adversity
Folks have to bear the smarts.

Some carriages go rolling by,
Gay laughter greets her ears;
She envies not their better lot,
She only sheds more tears,
And now and then a passing step,
Will cause the tears to cease;
As fainter, fainter, comes the plaint,
'Do buy my matches, please.'
Darker the sky, colder the wind,--
The bells are silent now;--
She creeps still closer to the wall,
And sinks upon the snow.
The sound of revelry no more
Disturbs her weary ear,
Sleep conquers cold and pain and grief;--
Oblivion shuts out fear.
The snow drifts to the churchyard wall,
The graves with white are spread;
But those gray walls do not enclose
All of the near-by dead.

The wind has ta'en the snowflakes,
And gently as it might,
Has spread a shroud o'er one more lost
And hid it from the sight.

I would not wake her if I could,
'Twas well for her she died;
Her spirit floated out upon
The bells of Christmastide,
She breathed no prayer, nor thought of Heaven,--
Her last faint words were these;--
As time merged in eternity,
'Do buy my matches, please.'

But surely angels would be there,
To shield her from all harm;
And in Christ's loving bosom,
She could nestle and get warm.

The wifeless, childless, stricken man,
Lies moaning in his pain--
'Come, let me bless thee e'er I die!'
But she never came again.