I looked within, and on the floor
Was sat a little boy,
Striving to soothe his sister's grief
By giving her a toy.
"Why weeps your sister thus?" I asked;
"What is her cause of grief?
Come tell me, little man," I said,
"Come tell me, and be brief."
Clasping his sister closer still,
He kissed her tear-stained face,
And thus, in homely Yorkshire phrase,
He told their mournful case.
———
"Mi mammy, sir, shoos liggin thear,
I' th' shut-up bed i'th' nook;
An' tho aw've tried to wakken her,
Shoo'll nawther spaik nor look.
Mi sissy wants her porridge,
An its time shoo had 'em too;
But th' foir's gooan aght an th' mail's all done—
Aw dooant know what to do.
An O, my mammy's varry cold—
Just come an touch her arm:
Aw've done mi best to hap her up,
But connot mak her warm.
Mi daddy he once fell asleep,
An nivver wakken'd moor:
Aw saw 'em put him in a box,
An tak him aght o'th' door.
He nivver comes to see us nah,
As once he used to do,
An let mi ride upon his back—
Me, an mi sissy too.
An if they know mi mammy sleeps,
Soa cold, an white, an still,
Aw'm feeard they'll come an fotch her, sir;
O, sir, aw'm feeard they will!