16. Reminiscences Of Hammonia.[88]

Orphan children two and two, Wandering gladly on we view, All of them blue coats are wearing, All of them red cheeks are bearing-- O the pretty orphan children!

All are moved when thus they prattle, And the money boxes rattle; Liberal alms upon them flow, That their secret sires bestow,-- O the pretty orphan children!

Women of a feeling heart Many a poor child kiss apart, Kiss his driv’lling nose (not pleasant), Give him sweetmeats as a present-- O the pretty orphan children!

One, with timid face but willing, Throws into the box a shilling,-- For he has a heart,--then gaily Follows he his business daily-- O the pretty orphan children!

One a golden louis-d’or Next bestows, but not before Heavenward looking, hoping blindly That the Lord will view him kindly-- O the pretty orphan children!

Porters, coopers, working men, Servants, make to-day again Holiday, and drain their glasses, Drinking to these lads and lasses-- O the pretty orphan children!

Tutelar Hammonia Follows them incognita; As she moves, her form gigantic Sways about, in manner frantic-- O the pretty orphan children!

In the green field where they went Music fills the lofty tent, Cover’d o’er with flag and banner; There are fed in sumptuous manner All these pretty orphan children.

There in lengthy rows they sit, Eating many a nice tit-bit, Tarts and cakes and sweet things crunching, While like little mice they’re munching,-- All these pretty orphan children.

Now my thoughts to dwell begin On an orphan-house wherein There no feasting is or gladness, Where lament in ceaseless sadness, Millions of poor orphan children.

There no uniforms are seen, Many want their dinner e’en; No two walk together yonder, Lonely, sorrowfully wander Many million orphan children.

17. THE ROBBERS.

While Laura’s arm, with tender feeling, Embraced me on the couch, the fox Her worthy husband from my box My banknotes quietly was stealing.

My pockets now have got no cash in! Was Laura’s kiss a simple lie? Ah! what is truth? In days gone by Thus Pilate ask’d, his hands while washing.

This evil world, decay’d and rotten, I soon shall ne’er again behold; I see that he who has no gold Will very soon be quite forgotten.

For you, pure souls, whose habitation In yonder realms of light I see, My bosom yearns. No wants have ye, So stealing is not your vocation.