Poor Kid

Mumsie and Dad are raven dark And I am lily blonde. ''Tis strange,' I once heard nurse remark, 'You do not correspond.' And yet they claim me as their own, Born of their flesh and bone. To doubt their parenthood I dread, But now to girlhood grown, The thought is haunting in my head That I am not their own: If so, my radiant bloom of youth Would wither in the truth. 'Twould give me anguish deep to know A fondling babe was I; And that a maid in wedless woe Left me to live or die: I'd rather Mother lied and lied To save my pride. I love them both and they love me; I am their all, they say. Yet though the sweetest home have we, To know I'm theirs I pray. If not, please dear ones, never tell . . . The truth would be of hell.