Starting a long time ago when and where this writer doesn't know.
A babe was borne of the name Hawthorn.
This babe was taken out in the night
Without malice or fright led by lamplight
To the house of a widow lost,
Her joy and merry weigh
Higher and more than any other.
This woman was given the task to raise
In love and lore the as her own
As a child to be hers for ever more.
The child's parents now are none other than one,
A lonely window with her lowly son.
To be raised in a society low below the sun
That works hard from rise to set
For the pay of man's sweat.
This child to be raised,
Will be raised hard
In the soft embrace of love.
To grow into servitude.
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