The uncle went not to his labor that morning! His thoughts are all evil, his ways all defiled, Religion,—truth,—honor—humanity scorning, He stands on the hill-top—he watches the child! He comes down the hill! in the forest does enter! The watcher knows not on what mission he's bound, But soon the news spreads from the cot to the Centre, How young Georgie Lovering can nowhere be found!
In the wild wood had her grandfather sought her, Though “Georgie” he called, he received no reply; The mother, too, searched for her beautiful daughter, Until she was ready with anguish to die; How wildly—how deeply her mother lamented, And said: “Tell me, Georgie, tell me where you roam!” No wonder the woman was almost demented, When she found the apron, and Pender the comb!
Yes, there was the comb, it had Georgie's hair in it, The sight seem'd to prove that her earth-life had fled; The searchers with horror did stand for a minute, And each of them feared Georgie Lovering was dead; Continue the search—get more men from the Centre— We must know her fate, and the end we must see. And farther and farther the forest we'll enter, No sleep will we crave, and unwearied we'll be.
Hundreds looked on when the Sun ceased its shining, And hundreds looked on when the Storm was severe, They worked for a mother bewailing, repining, While cursing the fiend that had reason to fear; While they, in the forest, the maiden were seeking, He looked full as meek as a parson from church, And of his innocence loudly was speaking, To persons were chosen to join not the search.
The uncle went not to his labor that morning! His thoughts are all evil, his ways all defiled, Religion,—truth,—honor—humanity scorning, He stands on the hill-top—he watches the child! He comes down the hill! in the forest does enter! The watcher knows not on what mission he's bound, But soon the news spreads from the cot to the Centre, How young Georgie Lovering can nowhere be found!