Still shoos human--tha'rt her brother.

Tho' tha'rt donn'd i' fine black cloathin,
A kid glove o' awther hand,
Dunnot touch her roughly, loathin--
Shoo's thi sister, understand:
Th' wind maks merry wi' her tatters,
Poor lost pilgrim!--but what matters?

Lulk ha sharp her elbow's growin,
An' ha pale her little face,
An' her hair neglected, showin
Her's has been a sorry case;
O, mi heart felt sad at th' seet,
When tha shov'd her into th' street

Ther wor once a "Man," mich greater
Nor thisen wi' all thi brass,
Him, awr blessed Mediator,--
Wod He scorn that little lass?
Noa, He called 'em, an' He blessed 'em,
An' His hands divine caress'd 'em.

Goa thi ways I an' if tha bears net
Some regret for what tha's done,
If tha con pass on, an' cares net
For that sufferin' little one;
Then ha'iver poor shoo be,
Yet shoos rich compared wi' thee.