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 nak'd 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 e'en 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,
Throo 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 labor 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 e'en,
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 throo th' cowd.
An monny 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.
An when years had gooan by, he expressed
'At i'th' spite ov all th' taichin he'd had,
An all th' lessons he'd leearn'd, that wor th' best
'At wor towt by that poor little lad.
Tho' the proud an the wealthy may prate,
An booast o' ther riches and land,
Some o'th' laadest 'ul sink second-rate
To that lad with his little black hand.