XVI.

No parent dear he hath to heed his cries;-- Alas! his parent dear is far aloof, And deep in Seven-Dial cellar lies, Killed by kind cudgel-play, or gin of proof; Or climbeth, catwise, on some London roof, Singing, perchance, a lay of Erin's Isle, Or, whilst he labours, weaves a fancy-woof, Dreaming he sees his home,--his Phelim smile; Ah me! that luckless imp, who weepeth all the while!