  THE Act of Sir John had been passed by the State, And the shops were all closed as Big Ben thundered eight; The desolate streets were denuded of light, And only the gin-palace gas-jets were bright. The widow, whose poor little shop was her all, A tear on the shroud she was making let fall. One daughter, upstairs, in the garret lay dead, And another was dying, the doctor had said. Ah! bitter the doom that the widow foresaw— She was ruined and crushed by the “merciful” law; Her trade was all done with the people, you see, Who only at seven or eight are set free. So her trade had dropped off, for no customers came, She was called on to close in “humanity’s” name; For in England, the land where dear Liberty reigns, If you sell after eight you are fined for your pains. No matter that she by herself did the trade, And had neither shopman nor shopgirl to aid; The law of the Lubbock had settled her fate, A widow mayn’t work for herself after eight. To the butcher in debt, to the baker as well, How the rent would be met the poor soul couldn’t tell, And she thought, with a feeling of terror and dread, Of the funeral bill for the child who lay dead. Not a coin in the till, and to-morrow—O God!— To be laid with her darling at rest ’neath the sod, To have passed from a land where the fanatics rave, And free Britons load with the chains of the slave! Ha! a customer comes with her purse in her hand— She wants this, she wants that. But the law of the land Forbids the poor widow to sell—it’s too late; The curfew has tolled—it’s a minute past eight. But the silver is there, in the hand that’s held out; The poor widow weeps—the police are about; But the silver would save her, she knows it’s a crime, But she sells half-a-crown’s worth of goods after time. She sells them, and clutches the silver with joy, When a bobby pops in—a mere bit of a boy— And exclaims, “All right, missis, I’ve copped you at last; I’ve been watching the place for a week or two past.” She is summoned and fined—O, just think of her sins!— She had sold a young woman a packet of pins, Some paper, some envelopes, and—O, the crime!— A Bible and Prayer-book, and all after time! The widow is ruined, her stock seized for debt She is sent to the workhouse; the shop is to let. Let all honest widows be warned by her fate— How dared she do work at a minute past eight! O Lubbock, when moving your merciless Bill, You exclaimed, in a voice that made Westminster thrill, “What crimes are committed in Liberty’s name!”— “In Humanity’s” surely you meant to exclaim. |
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