There’s a tale I know about them, were I poet I would tell;
Soft it comes, with perfume laden, like a breath of country air
Wafted down the filthy alley, bringing fragrant odours there.
In that vile and filthy alley, long ago, one winter’s day,
Dying quick of want and fever, hapless, patient Billy lay,
While beside him sat his sister, in the garret’s dismal gloom,
Cheering with her gentle presence Billy’s pathway to the tomb.
Many a tale of elf and fairy did she tell the dying child,
Till his eyes lost half their anguish, and his worn, wan features smiled:
Tales herself had heard hap-hazard, caught amid the Babel roar,