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Robert W Service - Poor Kid
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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.
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