When he sees a fellow with face of chalk,
Standing beneath a gas-light's glare,
And looking the picture of meek despair,
With a well-brush'd coat of rusty black,
A child in each hand and three at his back,
With pinafores clean, and little white caps,
Will give the scoundrel sixpence, perhaps.
For the Gull don't know that the pallid cheek
Is cleverly lin'd with the whitening's streak;
And the Gull is equally blind to the fact