Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold :: :: University of Virginia Library

Waif of the gutter and child of the street
Strolling along with his bare brown feet,
Spurning the bonds of society still,
And hearing the clink of the tradesman's till
With an envious twitch at a sound so sweet,
And dodging policemen's quest with a will,
Little boy Jack
Little cares for a whack
If it comes with a casual squall in his way,
Like a pinch of the frost in the wintry weather,
For he takes all alike in the work of the day
And lumps them together.

459

Only a bubble on life's dark tide
Tossing about on the waters wide,—
Nowhere a friend with a helping hand
Staying his steps or wiping the brand
From the sullied brow with no wholesome pride,
And bringing the wreck at last to land—
Little boy Jack
Goes his devious track,
Cropping up, coming down, from pillar to post,
And as ripe for a revel as glad of a copper,
Rising here, rising there, as an unlaid ghost
Ever pert and improper.

Born in a cellar and bred on the tramp,
Bearing the stain of the outcast stamp,
Beaten and tumbled along the dim road
That the vagabond treads with his careless load,
Hating the sunlight and hugging the lamp,
With the constant prick of his hunger's goad,
Little boy Jack
Carries too on his back
All the vice of the pavement and curse of his kin,
As he slouches apace like a lamb to the slaughter
With a passion for tricks and a weakness for gin,
And a hatred of water.

Motherless, homeless, yet he is brave,
Never a coward and never a slave;
Armed with a bayonet, broken in, led,
Might not he when a man his life-blood shed
For his country's honour he lived to save,
And die for the flag on a soldier's bed?
Little boy Jack,
With his wondrous knack
For a double share of the flouts and falls
Which to him have a sweet and savage wiling,
And for running his head on the iron walls,
Though he comes up smiling.