THE UNEMPLOYED.

We've got no work to do-o-o! Our homes are cold as the wintry air. Our stomachs are empty, booho-o-o! booho-o-o! And like Mother Hubbard our cupboards are bare. We're frozen out! Though our hearts are stout, And we're full of industry, zeal and thrift; There is not the chance of a job about, Through the hardened earth and the chilling drift. We do not howl as we prowl the street, With ruddy faces and bodies plump; Our voices though dulled by the cold are sweet, But the snow-spread lawn, and the frozen pump, The ice-bound pond, and the highway hard, Are all our foes. And no Union door, No Refuge warm is for us unbarred; We, we are the helpless deserving poor: So Christians thoughtful, gentle and good, Warm by fire-side or snug in bed, Be sure your bounty, of broken food, For us on pathways and lawns is spread; For we're poor, and hungry, and frozen out. We may not thank you in eloquent words; But litter your welcome largess about, And though cockney carols we cannot shout We'll gather on branch and on gutter-spout, And chirrup our thanks, we poor London Birds!!!