Our stomachs are empty, booho-o-o! booho-o-o!
And like Mother Hubbard our cupboards are bare.
We're frozen out! Though our hearts are stout,
And we're full of industry, zeal and thrift;
There is not the chance of a job about,
Through the hardened earth and the chilling drift.
We do not howl as we prowl the street,
With ruddy faces and bodies plump;
Our voices though dulled by the cold are sweet,
But the snow-spread lawn, and the frozen pump,