“O Lord!  O dear, my heart will break, I shall
  go stick stark staring wild! 
Has ever a one seen anything about the streets
  like a crying lost-looking child? 
Lawk help me, I don’t know where to look, or to
  run, if I only knew which way—­
A Child as is lost about London Streets, and especially
  Seven Dials, is a needle in a bottle of hay. 
I am all in a quiver—­get out of my sight, do, you
  wretch, you little Kitty M’Nab! 
You promised to have half an eye to him, you
  know you did, you dirty deceitful young drab. 
The last time as ever I see him, poor thing;
  was with my own blessed Motherly eyes,
Sitting as good as gold in the gutter,
  a-playing at making little dirt pies. 
I wonder he left the court where he was better off
  than all the other young boys,
With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells,
  and a dead kitten by way of toys. 
When his father comes home, and he always comes home
  as sure as ever the clock strikes one,
He’ll be rampant, he will, at his child being lost;
  and the beef and the inguns not done! 
La bless you, good folks, mind your own consarns,
  and don’t be making a mob in the street;
O Sergeant M’Farlane! you have not come across
  my poor little boy, have you, in your beat? 
Do, good people, move on! don’t stand staring at me
  like a parcel of stupid stuck pigs;
Saints forbid! but he’s p’r’aps been inviggled
  away up a court for the sake of his clothes
He’d a very good jacket, for certain,
  for I bought it myself for a shilling one day in Rag Fair;
And his trowsers considering not very much patch’d,
  and red plush, they was once his Father’
His shirt, it’s very lucky I’d got washing in the tub,
  or that might have gone with the rest
But he’d got on a very good pinafore
  with only two slits and a burn on the breast. 
He’d a goodish sort of hat, If the crown was sew’d in,
  and not quite so much jagg’d at the brim,
With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot,
  and not a fit, and, you’ll know by that if it’s him. 
Except being so well dress’d, my mind would misgive,
  some old beggar woman in want of an orphan,
Had borrow’d the child to go a begging with,
  but I’d rather see him laid out in his coffin! 
Do, good people, move on, such a rabble of boys! 
  I’ll break every bone of ’em I come near,
Go home—­you’re spilling the porter—­go home—­
  Tommy Jones, go along home with your beer. 
This day is the sorrowfullest day of my life,
  ever since my name was Betty Morgan,
Them vile Savoyards! they lost him once before
  all along of following a Monkey and an Organ: 
O my Billy—­my head will turn right round—­if
  he’s got kiddynapp’d with them Italians,
They’ll make him a plaster parish image boy,
  they will, the outlandish tatterdemallions. 
Billy—­where are you, Billy?—­I’m