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POEMS.

THE LOST HEIR.

" Oh where, and oh where

Is my bonny laddie gone ? "-OLD Song.

One day, as I was going by
That part of Holborn christened High,
I heard a loud and sudden cry
That chilled my very blood ;
And lo! from out a dirty alley,
Where pigs and Irish wont to rally,
I saw a crazy woman sally,
Bedaubed with grease and mud.
She turned her East, she turned her West,
Staring like Pythoness possest,
With streaming hair and heaving breast
As one stark mad with grief.
This way and that she wildly ran,
Jostling with woman and with man-
Her right hand held a frying pan,
The left a lump of beef.
At last her frenzy seemed to reach
A point just capable of speech,
And with a tone almost a screech,
As wild as ocean birds,
Or female Ranter moved to preach,
She gave her “sorrow words.”

“O Lord ! O dear, my heart will break, I shall

go stick stark staring wild ! Has ever a one seen any thing about the streets

like a crying lost-looking child ? · Lawk help me, I don't know where to look, or to

run, if I only knew which way. A Child as is lost about London streets, and es

pecially Seven Dials, is a needle in a bottle

of hay. I am all in a quiver - get out of my sight, do,

you wretch, you little Kitty M'Nab! You promised to have half an eye to him, you

know you did, you dirty deceitful young drab. The last time as ever I see him, poor thing, was

with my own blessed Motherly eyes, Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a playing at

making little dirt pies. I wonder he left the court where he was better

off than all the other young boys, With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells,

and a dead kitten by way of toys. When his Father comes home, and he always

comes home as sure as ever the clock strikes

one,

He'll be rampant, he will, at his child being lost ;

and the beef and the inguns not done! La bless you, good folks, mind your own consarns,

and don't be making a mob in the street; O serjeant M'Farlane! you have not come across

my poor little boy, have you, in your beat ?

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Do, good people, move on! don't stand staring at

me like a parcel of stupid stuck pigs ; Saints forbid! but he's p'r’aps been inviggled

away up a court for the sake of his clothes

by the prigs ; He'd a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought

it myself for a shilling one day in Rag Fair And his trowsers considering not very much

patched, and red plush, they was once his

Father's best pair. His shirt, it ’s very lucky I'd got washing in the

tub, or that might have gone with the rest ; But he'd got on a very good pinafore with only

two slits and a burn on the breast. He'd a goodish sort of hat, if the crown was

sewed in, and not quite so much jagg’d at the

brim. With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot,

and not a fit, and you 'll know by that if it's

him. . Except being so well dressed, my mind would mis

give, some old beggar woman in want of an

orphan, Had borrowed the child to go a begging with, but

I'd rather see him laid out in his coffin ! Do, good people, move on, such a rabble of boys!

I'll break every bone of 'em I come near, Go home - you ’re spilling the porter — go

home — Tommy Jones, go along home with

your beer.

This day is the sorrowfullest day of my life, ever

since my name was Betty Morgan, Them vile Savoyards! they lost him once before

all along of following a Monkey and an Or

gan: O my Billy - my head will turn right round — if

he's got kiddynapped with them Italians, They'll make him a plaster parish image boy,

they will, the outlandish tatterdemalions. Billy — where are you, Billy ? — I'm as hoarse

as a crow, with screaming for ye, you young

sorrow! And shan't have half a voice, no more I shan't,

for crying fresh herrings to-morrow. O Billy, your ’re bursting my heart in two, and

my life won't be of no more vally, If I'm to see other folk’s darlins, and none of

mine, playing like angels in our alley, And what shall I do but cry out my eyes, when I

looks at the old three-legged chair As Billy used to make coach and horses of, and

there a’n’t no Billy there! I would run all the wide world over to find him,

if I only know'd where to run ; Little Murphy, now I remember, was once lost

for a month through stealing a penny bun, The Lord forbid of any child of mine! I think it

would kill me raily, To find my Bill holdin' up his littie innocent

hand at the Old Bailey.

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For though I say it as oughtn’t, yet I will say,

you may search for miles and mileses And not find one better brought up, and more

pretty behaved, from one end to t’ other of

St. Giles's. And if I called him a beauty, it's no lie, but only

as a Mother ought to speak; You never set eyes on a more handsomer face,

only it hasn't been washed for a week; As for hair, tho’ its red, its the most nicest hair

when I've time to just show it the comb; I'll owe 'em five pounds, and a blessing besides,

as will only bring him safe and sound home. He's blue eyes, and not to be called a squint,

though a little cast he's certainly got ; And his nose is still a good un, tho' the bridge is

broke, by his falling on a pewter pint pot ; He's got the most elegant wide mouth in the

world, and very large teeth for his age ; And quite as fit as Mrs. Murdockson's child to

play Cupid on the Drury Lane Stage. And then he has got such dear winning ways —

but 0 I never never shall see him no more! O dear! to think of losing him just after nussing

him back from death's door! Only the very last month when the windfalls,

hang 'em, was at twenty a penny ! And the threepence he'd got by grottoing was

spent in plums, and sixty for a child is too

many.

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