Sons & daughters

[NLS note: a graphic appears here - see image of page]

       The Child of a Tar.

IN a little blue garment all ragged and torn,
With scarce any shoes to his feet,
His head quite uncover'd, a look quite forlorn,
And a cold stony step for his seat :
A boy cheerless sat, and as passengers pass'd,
With a voice that might avarice bar,
Have pity he cried, let your bounty be cast.
To the poor little child of a tar.

No mother I have, and no friend I can claim,
Deserted and cheerless I roam,
My father has fought for his country and fame,
But, alas ! he may never come home !
Pinch'd by cold and by hunger, how hapless my
fate,
Distress must all happiness mar,
Look down on my sorrows, and pity the fate,
Of a poor little child of a tar.

By cruelty drove from a neat little cot,
Where once with contentment we dwelt,
No friend to protect us, my poor mother's lot,
Alas ! too severely she felt !                   (own,
Bow'd down by misfortune, death made her his
And snatche'd her to regions afar,           (moan.
Distress'd and quite friendless, she left me to
A poor little child of a tar.

Thus plaintive he mourn'd when a sailor that
pass'd,
Stopp'd a moment to give him relief,
He stretch'd out his hand, and a look on him cast.
A look full of wonder and grief;
What ! my William, he cried, my poor little boy,
With wealth I've returned from the war,
Thy sorrow shall cease, nor shall grief more annoy,
The poor little child of a tar.

              W. Booth, Printer, Selby.