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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 chill'd my very blood ;
And lo! from out a dirty alley,
Where pigs and Irish wont to rally,
I saw a crazy woman sally,
Bedaub'd with grease and mud.
She turn'd her East, she turn'd 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 seem'd to reach
A point just capable of speech,
And with a tone almost a screech,
As wild as ocean birds,
Or female Ranter moy'd to preach,
She

gave sorrow words."

her 6

“O Lord ! O dear, my heart will break, I shall go stick stark.

staring wild !

Has ever a one seen anything 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 wayA Child as is lost about London streets, and especially 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 ås

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

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 trowsers 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.

boy,

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: O my Billy—my head will turn right round—if he's got kid

dynapp'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. O 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' 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 little innocent hand at the Old

Baily. 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. He's blue eyes, and not to be call’d 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. And the Cholera man came and whitewash'd us all and, drat

him, made a seize of our hog.It's no use to send the Cryer to cry him about, he's such a

blunderin' drunken old dog ; The last time he was fetched to find a lost child, he was guzzling

with his bell at the Crown, And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a distracted

Mother and Father about Town.

Billy—where are you, Billy, I say? come Billy, come home, to

your best of Mothers ! I'm scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they drive so, they'd

run over their own Sisters and Brothers. Or may be he's stole by some chimbly sweeping wretch, to stick

fast in narrow flues and what not, And be poked up behind with a picked pointed pole, when the

soot has ketch'd, and the chimbly's red hot. Oh I'd give the whole wide world, if the world was mine, to clap

my two longin' eyes on his face, For he's my darlin of darlins, and if he don't soon come back,

you'll see me drop stone dead on the place. I only wish I'd got him safe in these two Motherly arms, and

wouldn't I hug him and kiss him! Lauk! I never knew what a precious he was—but a child don't

not feel like a child till you miss him. Why there he is! Punch and Judy hunting, the young wretch,

it's that Billy as sartin as sin ! But let me get him home, with a good grip of his hair, and I'm

blest if he shall have a whole bone in his skin!

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