The Dear Old Lady

The dear old lady on our street -
  I wonder if you've met her?
She's always smiling, and so sweet
  That no one could forget her!
She hasn't read a hundred books
  In all her life, she tells me;
And if you were to judge by looks,
  The honest truth compels me
To say she does not seem so wise
  As many girls of twenty,
And yet no friend of hers denies
  She knows a lot, and plenty.

Her twinkling eyes are hid behind
  A pair of gold-rimmed glasses;
She's slightly deaf and slightly blind
  To many a thing that passes,
She'll see the sunset in the west
   and note its radiant glories,
And speak of mansions of the blest
 and sweet old Bible stories;
She'll see the bluebird and the thrush,
 She'll hear the cricket calling;
She'll listen in the twilight's hush,
 For sudden raindrops falling.

But if you say that Jane is proud,
 And John is so conceited,
Although you say it very loud,
  You find yourself defeated!
She softly answers, "Jane is good.
 She helps her widowed father;
There are not many girls that would,
 and makes no fuss or bother.
Yes, John is quite considerate,
 and handsome, too, and manly,
Reminding one, he's so sedate,
 Of cuts of Henry Stanley!"

She simply will not hear or see
 The faults in all her neighbors;
You point them out persistently,
  But vain are all your labors!
She finds the good in every heart,
 In child, or man, or woman;
And so she always takes their part,
  And says to err is human.
Ah! do you wonder, when you know,
  That we have learned to love her?
That form is withered, bent and slow,
But heaven is just above her!