Little Willie

Poor little Willie,
With his many pretty wiles;
Worlds of wisdom in his looks,
And quaint, quiet smiles;
Hair of amber, toucht with
Gold of heaven so brave;
All lying darkly hid
In a Workhouse Grave.

You remember little Willie;
Fair and funny fellow! he
Sprang like a lily
From the dirt of poverty.
Poor little Willie!
Not a friend was nigh,
When, from the cold world,
He croucht down to die.

In the day we wandered foodless,
Little Willie cried for bread;
In the night we wandered homeless,
Little Willie cried for bed.
Parted at the Workhouse door,
Not a word we said:
Ah, so tired was poor Willie,
And so sweetly slept the dead.

'T was in the dead of winter
We laid him in the earth;
The world brought in the New Year,
On a tide of mirth.
But, for lost little Willie,
Not a tear we crave;
Cold and Hunger cannot wake him,
In his Workhouse Grave.

We thought him beautiful,
Felt it hard to part;
We loved him dutiful;
Down, down, poor heart!
The storms they may beat,
The winter winds may rave;
Little Willie feels not
In his Workhouse Grave.

'No room for Little Willie;
In the world he had no part;
On him stared the Gorgon-eye,
Thro' which looks no heart!
Come to me, said Heaven;
And if Heaven will save,
Little matters tho' the door
Be a Workhouse Grave.