ONE night poor Jim had not a sou, Mike had enough for his own bed; "Take it: I'll walk the streets to-night," Said Mike, "and you lie down instead." So Mike walked out, but ne'er came back; We know not whether he is drowned, Or used his hands unlawfully; Is sick, or in some prison bound. Now Jim was dying fast, and he Took to the workhouse his old bones; To earn some water, bread, and sleep, They made that dying man break stones, He swooned upon his heavy task: They carried him to a black coach, And tearless strangers took him out -- A corpse! at the infirmary's porch. Since Jesus came with mercy and love, 'Tis nineteen hundred years and five; They made that dying man break stones, In faith that Christ is still alive. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MOUSE by ELIZABETH JANE COATSWORTH FIDELIS by ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER CASTOR AND POLYDEUCES by ALCAEUS OF MYTILENE THE FORLORN ONE by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM THE CHELSEA PENSIONERS by SUSANNA BLAMIRE SONNETS WRITTEN IN AN IRISH PRISON: HER NAME LIBERTY by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT AN OLD DREAM by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE |