Even if poor little Bessie should die.
Weary and tired I've been wandering all day,
Asking for work, but I'm too small, they say;
On the damp ground I must now lay my head;
Father's a drunkard and mother is dead.
"'We were so happy till father drank rum,
Then all our sorrow and trouble begun;
Mother grew pale and wept every day,
Baby and I were too hungry to play;
Slowly they faded till one summer night