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

You would surely respect,
Though not of the elect,
One wee morsel turned out by the slums,
With keen ear to detect
At a distance the fifes and the drums,
And quick foot to welcome their strums;

493

He's a thoroughbred sample
And a grimy example
Of the stuff that the gutter can make,
And the oven of trial hard-bake;
You might feel some affection for him,
Tiny Tim,
Though they call him, alas, Satan's limb—
Tiny Tim.

He'd look pretty if clean,
Which he never was seen;
He's a Whitechapel baby, you know,
But he does not act mean
If less ready for words than a blow,
And a lamb with a fleece not of snow;
And if in for a scrimmage,
He would leave you an image
That your mother herself could not tell,
And might empty your pockets as well;
So just spare a small copper for him,
Tiny Tim,
For his landmarks of duty are dim—
Tiny Tim.

But he's not very small,
As a fact not at all,
Such an infant as Hercules might
Have appeared and as tall,
Who would tackle a Bobby at sight
And emerge, too, the best from the fight;
If he stood in his stocking—
But it seems rather shocking,
He was never in one nor a sheet—
He would stand inches over six feet;
It were well to be friendly with him,
Tiny Tim,
And not seem quite so proper and prim—
Tiny Tim.

He can cut carriage wheels
On his head and his heels,
Which is more than a bishop could do

494

Who for him hardly feels,
And indeed for that matter than you,
Though you put all your powder in too;
And while grubby he's gritty,
And can chortle a ditty
That would set honest hair on an end,
Or a wig if to that you descend;
And the decalogue was not for him,
Tiny Tim,
His commandments are hungry and grim—
Tiny Tim.

He is fashioned of fire
And the pavement and mire,
But he has his own honour as much
As the rogues who aspire
To the credit that carries a smutch,
And then frame of religion a crutch;
Though he is a pure savage
Fain to riot and ravage,
Yet he wears not a hypocrite's smirk,
And would scorn his rough labour to shirk;
There is nothing behind hand with him,
Tiny Tim,
Though your codes might find plenty to trim—
Tiny Tim.

He is true to his class,
And not rude to a lass
And he would not strike one for a crown;
And to let a girl pass,
Just for fear she might sully her gown,
In the mud he would plump himself down;
He is fond of the gutter,
And coarse bread with no butter
Seems a good enough meal for his plan,
If he earns it at least like a man;
For sheer hunger is sweet sauce to him,
Tiny Tim,
And your squeamishness only a whim—
Tiny Tim.

495

He has tricks—never mind—
And is deaf, dumb, and blind,
Or whatever is likely to pay,
If he thinks you look kind
And a bobby is not in the way—
But have you never shammed, he might say?
He will whimper and wobble
And deplorably hobble,
Should he scent in your figure a flat,
With a pitiful story all pat;
But perhaps you have brought it on him,
Tiny Tim,
That his hat is in holes with no brim,
Tiny Tim.

Let who may be your pet,
Upon him I will bet
For the staunchness he gets from his breed,
And if famished or wet
Or half perished, all human his creed—
To be loyal to chums in their need;
He is ripe for a rally,
To help Tom or help Sally—
And especially her, if she calls—
Ah, I pity his foe, when he falls;
He's a trump, and there's treasure in him,
Tiny Tim;
You have cream, and he scarcely the skim,
Tiny Tim.

If you happen to trip
Through Whitechapel and slip,
He is certain to give you a chance
Of a generous tip;
If you won't—well, beware of a dance,
As he taught one poor Canon romance;
But he has English leaven
And may still squeeze in Heaven,
When your Pharisee's canting and pride
In the shadow will shiver outside;

496

I suspect there's a corner for him,
Tiny Tim,
When the humbugs go down he will swim,
Tiny Tim.