I see her every day at noon

Slip thro' the crowded street
Like some sweet spirit clad in black,

So noiseless are her feet.
Her eyes of brown are soft and sweet,

Her pretty figure, frail ;
She carries in her little hand

Her father's dinner pail.

How serious is her gentle face,

How wise her woman's way ;
For she has taken mother's place,

Who died the other day.
She 'tends the baby that was left

And stills its feeble wail,
Except when she must go abroad

With father's dinner pail.

She mends the children's dresses ;

Her little brothers three
They lisp their prayer at bed-time

All clustered round her knee.
Each morning she prepares a lunch

For father without fail,
And dons her shawl and hood at noon

To take the dinner pail.

A blessing on your sweet young face,

True and faithful heart,
No heroine was ere so true

Or fearless as thou art ;
And I will wait and watch each day,

And I will never fail
To see thy pretty figure pass

With father's dinner pail.