I'd lost her a bit,-about that time
I'd bin on the lush, I know,-
When I met with an ancient pal o' mine,
We called him Limping Joe;

And he told me as 'ow she'd bin in quod,
Which it staggered me like a blow.

She'd took some fruit for her poor sick kid,
In a sort of fit o' despair;

So they had her up, and giv' her a month
Of prison work and fare;

And they called it "shocking depravity,"
Or something like that 'ere.

There, 'twould make me laugh, if it wasn't so sad,
To see how they deals wi' we,

Hard'ning the better and struggling few,

While the cunning old hands goes free, And grins and thinks with Puck i' the play, "What fools these mortals be!"

I see her agin in a little while,

Looking whiter and wuss than afore;

But the weaker she growed, poor soul, she seemed To cling to her boy the more;

I could see that she was drawing near

To heaven's merciful shore.

Now there come the Peddlers' Hact just then

That has caused such a deal o' fuss;

If I'd only ha' had the naming o't,

I'd 'ave haltered the title thus: "A Hact for turning Men into Thieves, And Women into wuss!"

"Once a thief, allus a thief;

Brand 'em and stop their bread, And starve 'em all into being good "

That's how the hact's to be read:

Why, I really think that your Mister Bruce

Must be going off his 'ed!

Lord bless yer! them there Parleyment chaps,

Wot legislates for the poor,

Why, they know no more about us, man,

Than the lock on that 'ere door.

"Tis a muddle all through, and they seem to try To muddle it more and more.

Only to think, in a Christian land,
Where people preach and kneel,
It should be a crime for a fallen man
To earn an honest meal!-

How the angels must wonder and weep to see,

And the devil caper and reel!

When I heard as they'd stopped her rounds,
And writ "convicted" agin her name,
I felt a choking like i' the throat,
And my heart was all aflame.

Ah me! there was only the workus now,
Or a woman's crowning shame!

Well, I'd come one bitter night dead beat
To a lodging-crib I knew,

And gathered about the kitchen fire

I found a motley crew;

They was singing and swearing and going on,

As only trampers do.

I'd set me down in a weary mood,

Sick o' their oaths and lies,

When the missus-she was a rough un was Moll

Come in with the tears in her eyes,

And prayed 'em, if they was women and men,

To try and stop the noise;

For there was a poor young stranger gal

In the room just overhead,

That wasn't likely to last the night,—

Least so the doctor had said;

And they wanted to keep her quiet, poor soul,

And to coax her boy to bed.

They was still at once, and I follered her out,
With a sudden tremble and thrill:

"For God's sake, missus," I whispered, hoarse,
"Show me this woman that's ill;

For I think I know her of old, yer see,

She and her little Will!"

"Come and see her, and welcome,' he said; "For perhaps before she goes,

It might be a comfort to her like

To see a face that she knows."

Poor drunken Moll, she'd a nook it her heart

For a stricken sister's woes. ...

Yes, it was she-the poor wronged gal,

Once pure, and bonny, and blessed-
With a far-off look in the great blue eyes,
Soon to close in their long last rest;
And dank and disheveled the golden head
That should ha' laid on a mother's breast.

There was women about her,-slatternly drabs,
The lowest o' the low,-

One tenderly bathing her poor hot head,
One walking to and fro,

Hushing the boy, who knew me agin,
And begun to laugh and crow.

She looked up then, and saw me, and smiled,-
Such a weariful smile and drear,--

Then turned her face to the wall with a sigh
That it wrung my heart to hear;

And her white lips uttered the old, old cry,

66

O mother! O mother dear!"

"Poor soul !"-'twas Moll that whispered the words"That's how she's bin all through;

She thinks o' naught but her mother and boy,
But I dunno what we can do ;

For she'll tell us nothing about herself,

Nor where are her friends, nor who.

"When the parson asked her name, she sobbed: 'I've no name now to own;

You see what I am, sir-a sinful girl,

That looks to Christ alone,

And prays Him to shield her dear, dear boy
When his mother's dead and gone!'

"That's all we knows about her, yer see,
Except that she came to the door,
Dead beat and sinking, a week ago:
But perhaps you can tell us more."

But I'd nothing I could tell 'em, you know,
Save what I've told afore.

Yet my heart went forth to the poor sick gal,

The weariful, golden head,

And I fell on my knees afore them all

Beside her dying bed;

And it seemed as if words was given me,
And this was what I said:

"My lass, I can read your story, I think,

And I pity you from my heart:

There, I ain't goin' to ask who you are, poor child! So you needn't tremble and start!

"Tis enough for me that you're lying here,
And that you and your boy must part.

"But God 'll take care o' the boy, He will,
Though the road look dark and grim;
And He'll take you, too, to His pitying arms,
Where no tear those eyes shall dim;

And death will be but the gate o' life,
If you only trust in Him:

"For His mercies are above all His works

'Tis true, for He tells us so

And He gives to the heavy-laden rest
From their load o' care and woe;

And though our sins as scarlet be,

He can make them white as snow!

"Will you trust your pretty boy to me?
Ah! you shudder, and well you may.
I know I'm an old, stained, shameful man,
That has throwed his life away;

But I, too, had a mother once

Who taught her child to pray.

"I'll shield him, as a mother would do,
From sorrow and sin and strife;

And the Master, I know, will help us both
With His guiding mercy rife;

And the honest bread I earn for the boy
Shall sweeten and bless my life.

"It must rest with you, and only you,—
The choice shall be wholly thine;

But if you can trust the boy to me,
Only make me a sign."

She smiled, and tried to give me her hand,
And I knew that the boy was mine.

She died next day, with a perfect trust
In Him who alone can save;

And I carried her orphan boy in my arms
To his mother's parish grave;

And they that shed the only tears

Was a drab and a tramping knave.

The parson offered to take the boy:
He said as my heart was kind,
But mine was hardly the sort o' life
For a child to be consigned.

He was right, maybe, but I kep' to my trust,
And up and spoke my mind:

"Look here, sir," I said, "I'm bad right out-
Low, lazy, and drunken, and wild-

But I mean, please God, to begin afresh,
For the sake of this little child;
For I feel he was sent to help reclaim
The life I've wasted and s'iled."

So I took the boy and I went my way,
And I tried to keep my word;

I was helpless like o' myself, in course,
But the Master saw and heard;

And in teaching them baby lips to pray,
My own poor heart was stirred.

I got a place as a hostler fust

At Grantham, in Linkunsheer,

But the vagabone mood come back, and I liked The boy to be allus near;

So I just worked on till I'd saved enough

To buy this horgan here.

We're shy o' the regular lodging-kens,

And in decent houses lie;

And I'm saving a trifle, don't yer see,
To 'prentice him by-and-by.

I shall feel it lonely at fust, no doubt,
But the Master'll still be nigh.

And so we jogs on, Willie and I:

I carries the horgan and plays,

And the browns fall fast in his little hat,

While the women fondle and

raise.

God has been werry good to send the boy

To comfort the old man's days.

There, I must have tired you out, I'm afraid,
With my wearisome yarn and drawl;

But 'tis good to open yer heart sometimes,
And I'm glad I happened to call.

Come, Will, we must make for Chumpsford, lad;
Bo good-night, gentlemen all!