Postscript to previous blog:
Ellen Johnston died aged 38, in a poorhouse in Glasgow. There is no record of what became of her child.
It is outrageous that Johnston’s life was plagued by, and was eventually cut short by, the very social ills of which she writes so eloquently and emotively.
I don’t know, but I’m guessing that she would be extremely happy and proud to know that 100 years on, her poem is being read and appreciated.
I’m just going to take a moment to think about that…
(and, is it just a matter of time before they reopen the poorhouses and workhouses? I wonder.)
To cut a long story short: