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; Oh Serjeant M'Farlane! you have not come across my poor little boy, have you, in your beat?

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 trousers considering not very much patch'd, 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 sew'd 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 dress'd my mind would misgive, some old beggar woman in want of an orphan,

Had borrow'd 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 organ.
Oh my Billy—my head will turn right round-if he's
got kiddynapp'd 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.

Oh Billy, you're bursting my heart in two, and my

life won't be of no more vally,

If I'm to see other folks' darlin's, 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 railey,

To find my Bill holdin' up his little innocent hand at the Old Bailey.

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' it's red, it's 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.