Now this is the tale of a lad ever poor,
whose family are now never more,
he's caught a sickness that is hard to ignore,
and he spends his life a-lying on the floor.
Oh! but don't you worry one little bit,
he's a boy in possession of quite some wit,
anyone else would just give up and quit,
but not this lad, that he wouldn't permit.
He was not an idle lad, like those we know,
he knew how to work, with but little to show,
from sunrise to set, through rain or through snow,
he was not the lad to ever be slow.
He was as good a boy as a boy could be,
he would never steal, or take anything for free,
no matter how hungry he'd never plea,
Unfortunately though, few others agree.
Now the sickness snares him in its wake
and with no work comes no food to take
in the plague of the slums he's forced to ache
to bleed, to cough, to starve and to shake.
Yet he can smile in the morning, so sincere,
and give you a 'Good Day, Sir!' so full of cheer,
he'll take your insults without a sneer,
and keep to hisself his own darkest fear.
He curls up to sleep in a gutter of disease,
wrapped up warm with a blanket of fleas,
though once quiet, now he must sneeze,
and bring attention to his silent pleas.
A man sees him one fatal night,
a sinful crook filled with malice and spite,
he steals and teases and then takes flight,
leaving our poor lad plain in sight.
'Thief' 'Thief' 'You, Thief!' they cried,
all because one of them lied,
they chased him through the streets in stride,
and weak as he was, he could not hide.
He swung from the gallows with a last creak,
his eyes popping open for one last peek,
And not one chance did he get to speak,
his innocence now a soundless shriek.
