A little lad,—bare wor his feet,
His 'een wor swell'd an red,
Wor sleepin, one wild New Year's neet,—
A cold doorstep his bed.
His little curls wor drippin weet,
His clooas wor thin an old,
His face, tho' pinched, wor smilin sweet,—
His limbs wor numb wi' cold.
Th' wind whistled throo th' deserted street,
An snowflakes whirled abaat,—
It wor a sorry sooart o' neet,
For poor souls to be aght.
'Twor varry dark, noa stars or mooin,
Could shine throo sich a storm;—
Unless some succour turns up sooin,
God help that freezin form!
A carriage stops at th' varry haase,—
A sarvent oppens th' door;
A lady wi' a pale sad face,
Steps aght o'th' cooach to th' floor.
Her 'een fell on that huddled form,
Shoo gives a startled cry;
Then has him carried aght o'th' storm,
To whear its warm an dry.
Shoo tended him wi' jewelled hands,
An monny a tear shoo shed;
For shoo'd once had a darlin lad
But he, alas! wor dead.
This little waif seemed sent to cheer,
An fill her darlin's place;
An to her heart shoo prest him near,
An kissed his little face.