But aw'll laff woll mi galluses braik, Tho mi bed's net as soft as spun silk; An' if butter be aght o' mi raik, Aw'll ma' th' best ov a drop o' churn milk. It's nooan them 'at's getten all th' brass 'At's getten all th' pleasure, net it! When aw'm smookin a pipe wi' th' owd lass, Aw con thoil 'em whativer they get. But sometimes when aw'm walkin throo th' street, An' aw see fowk hauf-clam'd, an' i' rags, Wi noa bed to lig daan on at neet But i'th' warkus, or th' cold-lukkin flags; Then aw think, if rich fowk nobbut' knew What ther brothers i' poverty feel, They'd a trifle moor charity show, An' help 'em sometimes to a meal. But we're all far too fond of ussen, To bother wi' things aght o'th' seet; An' we leeav to ther fate sich as them 'At's noa bed nor noa supper' at neet. But ther's mony a honest heart throbs, Tho' it throbs under rags an' i' pains, 'At wod'nt disgrace one o'th' nobs, 'At booasts better blooid in his veins. See that child thear! 'at's working away, An' sweepin that crossin i'th' street: He's been thear iver sin it coom day, An' yo'll find him thear far into th' neet. See what hundreds goa thowtlessly by, An' ne'er think o' that child wi' his broom! What care they tho' he smothered a sigh, Or wiped off a tear as they coom. But luk! thear's a man wi' a heart! He's gien th' poor child summat at last: Ha his een seem to twinkle an' start, As he watches th' kind gentleman past! An' thear in his little black hand He sees a gold sovereign shine! He thinks he ne'er saw owt soa grand, An' he says, "Sure it connot be mine!" An' all th' lads cluther raand him i' glee, An' tell him to cut aght o'th seet; But he clutches it fast,--an' nah see Ha he's threedin his way along th' street, Till he comes to that varry same man, An' he touches him gently o'th' back, An' he tells him as weel as he can, 'At he fancies he's made a mistak. An' th' chap luks at that poor honest lad, With his little naked feet, as he stands, An' his heart oppens wide--he's soa glad Woll he taks one o'th little black hands, An' he begs him to tell him his name: But th' child glances timidly raand-- Poor craytur! he connot forshame To lift up his een off o'th graand. But at last he finds courage to spaik, An' he tells him they call him poor Joa; 'At his mother is sickly an' waik; An' his father went deead long ago; An' he's th' only one able to work Aght o' four; an' he does what he can, Thro' early at morn till it's dark: An' he hopes 'at he'll sooin be a man. An' he tells him his mother's last word, As he starts for his labour for th' day, Is to put 'all his trust in the Lord, An' He'll net send him empty away.-- See that man! nah he's wipin his een, An' he gives him that bright piece o' gowd; An' th' lad sees i' that image o'th Queen What 'll keep his poor mother thro' th' cowd. An' mony a time too, after then, Did that gentleman tak up his stand At that crossing an' watch for hissen The work ov that little black hand.