Dragging out his weak existence well nigh hopeless and forlorn.
He was six, was little Tommy, ’twas just five years ago
Since his drunken mother dropped him, and the babe was crippled so.
He had never known the comfort of a mother’s tender care,
But her cruel blows and curses made his pain still worse to bear.
There he lay within the cellar from the morning till the night,
Starved, neglected, cursed, ill-treated, naught to make his dull life bright;
Not a single friend to love him, not a living thing to love—
For he knew not of a Saviour, or a heaven up above.
’Twas a quiet summer evening; and the alley, too, was still;