  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 curl’d 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 lock’d up in coffins of black. And by came an angel, who had a bright key, And he open’d the coffins, and set 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. W. Blake. |
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