When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry ‘weep! Weep! Weep! weep!
So your chimneys I sweep and in soot I sleep.
There’s little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head
That curled like a lamb’s back, was shaved, so I said,
‘Hush, Tom! Never mind it, for when your head’s bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair’.
And so he was quiet, and that very night,
As Tom was a-sleeping he had such a sight!
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack.
Were all of them locked up in coffins of black.
And by came an Angel who had a bright key,