[Ye Prologue.]

I HAD been to the theatre, swallowed a play,
Seen bright Marie Wilton, and cried with the best
O’er the poor parting lovers; then laugh’d and was gay
At the plump roly-poly, the puns, and the rest.

[Acte ye fyrste.]

So into the streets, warmly muffled, I came,
And turn’d my steps homeward, three miles in the fog;
When, threading a court (I can’t tell you its name),
I tripp’d against something I thought was a dog,

For it moan’d. I stoop’d down, half-expecting a bite;
But the thing never moved; then I look’d, and behold,
A baby, wrapt up in brown paper and night,
Half-dying with hunger, half-frozen with cold.

I return’d to the Foundling, and ringing the bell,
Gave Baby in charge; then, retracing my way,
I mused upon this which had happen’d, and fell
From my comedy-mood to a tragedy-play.

[Acte ye second.]

I had seen the first act—now the second began.
Night lifted her curtain; and, here in the street,
A minute City Arab, the least of his clan,
Patter’d past on the pavement,—no shoes to his feet;

Black, shivering, starving; not daring to beg,
Not able to work, not unwilling to steal,
If a chance came his way; he was fleet of his leg;
He would risk a policeman to pilfer a meal.

Sure enough the chance came; ’twas a truckful of bread;
No Gorgon to watch it—no dragon to slay;
Like a juvenile Jason, he plunder’d and fled;
Like a Jason, he found a Medea to pay—

In the shape of a lout, twice the size of himself,
The sole witness, by hunger made ruthless and keen;
He demolish’d the pilferer, pilfer’d the pelf,
Disappear’d with his booty—and down came the scene.

[Acte ye thyrde.]

Act the third was a garret;—I thought I had clomb
Up a hundred of stairs, to a hole in the roof,
Where a lad of eighteen had made shift of a home,—
With a wife, if you please—and a baby for proof.

He was thief by profession—a cadger—a sot—
Sticking close to his calling; and so, as we say,
An habitual rogue;—had he chosen his lot,
It may be he had pitch’d on an honester way.

As it was, he was light of his fingers—adept
At shop-lifting and burglary—nimble and cute;
Never fear’d a policeman (unless when he slept),
And was held by his pals in the highest repute.

[Acte ye fovrthe.]

Act the fourth is the hulks, where our hero appears
In the proper stage garments of yellow and red;
With a chain to his leg this last dozen of years,
And a warder to see that he works for his bread.

[Morall Reflecciouns.]

Once again—’tis his lot; you won’t hear him complain;
He was born to it, kick’d to it—Fortune is blind;
And if some have the pleasure, some must have the pain;
So it’s each for himself—and the devil behind.

[ Acte ye last and Ingenious rhyme.]

The last act of our drama—well, what shall it be?
The august British Public, defraying the cost?—
Or . . . P-a-r-l-i-a-m-e-n-t?
Or the angels, lamenting the soul that is lost?