Thalatta! Thalatta! There's many a lad who has never before had a glimpse of the wave;
For these are of those who, from London's dark wastes 'tis the aim of their leaders to rescue and save.
"Nobody's Boys," the lost waifs of the city, foredoomed, but for aid, to debasement and crime,
Possible gallows-birds,—they with wan faces late cleansed from the rookery's hideous grime,
Snatched from the gutter whilst boyhood bears hope with it, gathered and tended with vigilant care.
Servants of soul-thrift their volunteer champions! Weeds of the slum, with fresh soil and sweet air,
Grow into grace and fair fruitage. These pariahs, "Southwark Boys," strays from the slime-sodden east,
FEGAN takes forth in gay troops to the meadows, in freshness of nature to frolic and feast,
Climb in the woodlands and plunge in the waters, ramble and scramble through tangle-hedged lanes,
Fish in the pools with youth's primitive tackle, breathe quickening vigour through bosoms and brains.