THE RUNAWAY by EDITH MEDBERY FITCH

Ya, I'm a runaway wife. God's truth, which I don't deny.
And you're the sheriff that's come to take me back to the sty—
To Little Russia—ya, I come from over there—
Better call it Little Hell for what women and children bear.

You can take me to jail if you want—it's nothing that's new to me;
For I've never yet drawn a breath that's what you could say was free.
Bond woman from birth to death—I've been used to it all of my life;
But I'll never go back again to the man who has called me wife.

I was born in Russia, ya, and at ten I was put to the field,
The common tool of men who force their women to yield;
And I never dared to resist—God knows the peasant folk;
But my girl is American born—not fit for the peasant yoke.

She must learn to read and to write; but he took her out of the school
And put her to work in the fields by the side of a lust-crazed fool;
So I stole her and ran away from the sight of the damning corn.
It was well enough for me, but my girl, here's, American born.

'Tis the peasant women that slave and save for the men who take their toll
From the stupid lives of worn-out wives, and own them, body and soul;
But she'll never be bent to their brutish wills in the endless rows of
corn—
I'll see you in Hell before I'll go back—my girl is American born.

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