That Drabbled Brat.

A poem by John Hartley

Goa hooam, - tha little drabbled brat,
Tha'll get thi deeath o' cold;
Whear does ta live? Just tell me that,
Befooar aw start to scold.

Thart sypin weet, - dooant come near me!
Tha luks hawf pined to deeath;
An what a cough tha has! dear me!
It ommost taks thi breeath.

Them een's too big for thy wee face, -
Thi curls are sad neglected;
Poor child! thine seems a woeful case,
Noa wonder tha'rt dejected.

Nah, can't ta tell me who tha art?
Tha needn't think aw'll harm thi;
Here, tak this sixpence for a start,
An find some place to warm thi.

Tha connot spaik; - thi een poor thing,
Are filled wi' tears already;
Tha connot even start to sing,
Thi voice is soa unsteady.

It isn't long tha'll ha to rooam,
An sing thi simple ditty;
Tha doesn't seem to be at hooam,
I' this big bustlin city.

It's hard to tell what's best to be
When seets are soa distressin;
For to sich helpless bairns as thee,
Deeath seems to be a blessin.

Some hear thi voice an pass thi by,
An feel noa touch o' sorrow;
An, maybe, them at heave a sigh,
Laff it away to-morrow.

For tha may sing, or sigh, or cry;
Nay, - tha may dee if needs be;
An th' busy craads 'at hurries by,
Streeams on an nivver heeds thee.

But ther is One, hears ivvery grooan,
We needn't to remind Him;
An He'll net leeav thi all alooan;
God give thee grace to find Him!

An may be send His angels daan,
Thi feet throo dangers guidin;
Until He sets thee in His craan, -
A gem, in light abidin.

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