The darkness of Hades and a vile, deathly smell
Is all that I feel stealing over my senses,

As lingering alone in this cold dungeon cell,
Shut away from the world, where hearts' blood condenses.
I feel 'tis too much for slight, trivial offenses.

Shut away from the dear ones, the loved ones on earth,
I suffer the tortures that no man can tell

Till he's taken away from fireside and hearth
And sees the sad visions of a dungeon cell—
Then he feels that vile man can create a real hell.

As I sit here alone, my head throbbing and aching,
And listen to hear if the keeper is near,

My thoughts they roam back to little ones taking
Caresses so sweet from a mother so dear—
Then I'm prompted to ask, "Do they think of me here?"

But when in my heart I feel a slight flutter,
I know there is sympathy somewhere about;

I then to myself do silently mutter,
"They have love for me still, and there is no doubt:"
Aye, love for me still, and this I've found out.

Then, down on the damp and cold stony floor,
Without either pillow, or blanket, or gown,

I stretch my weak body right close to the door,
And there, in sweet sleep, my vision to drown—
Then, when I awake, I'm not so cast down.

There is nothing so sweet and perfectly soothing
To one who is placed in a cold dungeon cell,

As the thought that yet there are dear ones a-wooing
The one who's imprisoned in a dark, dreary dell—
I muttered, while sleeping, "'Tis well, ah, 'tis well."

Then, when I awoke and proceeded to think,
Cold, stiffened and hungry, with tongue parched from thirst,

I seek but in vain for food and for drink,
But bread and poor water, the same as at first—
Aye, dry bread and bad water, the same as at first.

Then my heart sank within me, so weak and so pale,
As I gazed on the keeper of dungeon and jail

And begged for a drink of pure Adams' ale,
As he held in his hand a full water pail—
But the answer came back, "Your plea it must fail."

Then, giving it up in pure desperation,
I try to surpass the curse of damnation

That springs to my lips ere I can but control
The blood that is boiled by such torturing droll—
Then I whisper, "Be still! Some one loves this poor soul."

Then, staid by the love of those dear ones at home,
I steady myself and go swimming along;

I brave the hard life of a dark dungeon cell
And I come out victorious, all perfect and well—
Then I meet them again and go home there to dwell.

'T is well! Ah, 't is well!