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Where can my poor girl be? I be sore afraid when she do stay so long away; a fair flower hazards the plucking of every hand, and she ha' now no protector but her old mother; my poor husband in prison, and the young hope of our days fled from us when he wur but ten years old! But that grief I can never speak of to my husband; it do almost turn his brain-but many and many a night ha' found me waking and thinking what ha' been his fate. Hey, bless me, this is a sad world for the helpless and unfriended! Buckstone, Luke the Labourer
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