It was one winter’s night when the wind,
It blew bitter across the bleak moor,
When poor Agnes she came bearing child,
Banished from her own father’s door.
She cried, ‘Somebody, O pray let me in,
Do come down and open your own gate,
Or my child, not yet born, will die,
Do not leave him to such cruel fate!’
‘Why was I forced to leave my home,
Where once I was happy and free,
Now doomed to exile, to wander, to roam,
O Someone, have pity on me.’
The workhouse was not so deaf to her cry,
For Bumble heard a voice, crying from the moor,
Down he flew, the gates he threw, and wondered why
A woman such as she lay at the door.
Wild and frantic was the young woman’s hair,
Dusty and bloodied, her feet needed to lie,
Her child, the tender overseers would care,
‘Let me see the child and die.’
So they brought Agnes in from the wild,
At that dismal, fated hour,
And there she birthed her orphan child,
And if he’d known, he’d have cried the louder.