London pavements, London darkness, London squalor,—these they know.
Not for them to range the moorland, or to climb the mountain-side;
They must linger on in London, till the grave their sorrows hide.
From year's end to dreary year's end they must pace the noisy street.
Do you hear the ceaseless echo of their weary, weary feet?
Just one day without your wine, Sir! Madam, just one ribbon less,
And one wearied child in London from afar your name will bless.
Think, ere now you seek your boredom in fresh pleasure-draughts to drown,
Three or four benighted Millions still are left behind in Town!