THE BLACK SHEEP
by
T. W. Connor



Seated on a ragged doorstep
Stands a youth, with stomach flat,
All his gold teeth in the pawnshop,
And the top out of his hat.

He's the Black Sheep of the Fam'ly,
For his father was a sweep.
Mother danced the old "Black-bottom"
That's why he's the poor Black Sheep.

From his birth he's been unlucky
So he heard his mother say
Swallowed sixpence when a baby,
It's inside him to this day.

Never had a birthday present
In his life, has little Jim ;
Only one small dose of measles
That his sister gave to him.

At the school nobody loved him
, Though they found him hard to beat;
Always wore his father's trousers,
With a tea-tray in the seat !

Took the first prize in the races,
But... bad luck still on his track...
Someone watching saw him take it
And they made him put it back.

Situations... he's had many,
As a cashier... stood alone;
But... counting up his master's money
Got it mixed up with his own.

Then he went out to the "Diggings."
But the "Diggin's" where he went
He only stopped about a fortnight...
Got chucked out for owing rent.

Gambling hells have been his ruin,
Cards and dice are not enough;
Goes to all-night parties playing
"Tiddley winks " and " Blind man's buff!"

Once he backed a fourp'ny double,
After all the years he'd tried,
It came off! but one "walked over,"
The other got disqualified!

Every night in Piccadilly
With the "Boys" he acts the goat;
See him fighting with policemen,
While the others hold his coat.

Then they all said, "Goin' to 'ave one?"
Put your troubles on the shelf.
Ordered him champagne in quarts, and
Let him pay for it himself.

See him landed in the p'lice-court,
Hear the nine policemen swear,
"Found him trying to feed the lions
Last night in Trafalgar Square."

He's prepared to contradict them,
And, indeed, can say a lot,
But he can't say "Truly rural,"
Gets his tongue tied in a knot!

When they fine him forty shillings,
In the Dock he rocks and sways.
All he's got's a Lady's Garter
Has to do the seven days.

One night, when the snow was falling...
He'd nowhere to lay his head,
Then he thought of dear old mother
Went and pulled her out of bed.

She was so delighted with him,
Just to see his dear old face
Turned the dog out of its kennel
And let him sleep in its place.

He would work if he could get it,
But the outlook's dark and drear;
He's a Hot-Cross bun designer,
Only works one day a year.

Still... we won't look down upon him
Just because he's painted black;
He may yet turn out a burglar
And get his bad character back.

One day we're worth our weight in gold,
The next... not worth a button,
But, after all, the poor Black Sheep
Is worth his weight-in' MUTTON!