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 whativver they get.
But sometimes when aw'm walkin throo th' street,
An aw see fowk hawf-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 monny 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 workin away,
An sweepin that crossin i'th' street:
He's been thear ivver 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 e'en 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.