The chimney-SWEEPER
When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry “Weep! weep! weep!
weep!”
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.
There’s little Tom Dacre, who cried when
his head,
That curled like a lamb’s back, was shaved;
so I said,
“Hush, Tom! never mind it, for, when your
head’s bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white
hair.”
And so he was quiet, and that very night,
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!
—
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned,
and Jack,
Were all of them locked up in coffins of black.
And by came an angel, who had a bright key,
And he opened the coffins, and let them all
free;
Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing,
they run,
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.
Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind;
And the Angel told Tom, if he’d be a good
boy,
He’d have God for his father, and never
want joy.
And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags and our brushes to work.
Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and
warm:
So, if all do their duty, they need not fear
harm.
