In a little back street one winter's day
A lady spoke in a kindly way
To a poor little waif whose feet were bare
While snow-flakes fell on his tangled hair
'You are cold, you are hungry, too' said she, 'So come with me
Someone loves little waifs like you, and you've my sympathy
His curly head he shook - said he with a vacant look,

Chorus: 'That's the worst o' them little backstreets
You never hear nothin' at all
What you say is new to me - I've never heard of sympathy
You say someone loves me, although I'm ragged and small
'That's the worst o' them little back streets
You never hear nothin' at all.'

From that little back street the boy she led
In her own home he was clothed and fed
Then with eyes open wide, said he, 'Tell me
Kind lady, do, what is sympathy.'
'Sympathy,' she replied, 'My boy
Without a thought of gain
makes one glad for another's joy
And sorry for their pain.'
Said he, 'I've never met nor heard of such a thing as yet,


Down that little back street, one winter's day
An old dame walked, she was bent and grey
As she leaned on his arm, she looked with pride
On one who thoughtfully walked beside
'You remember this street, so drear`'
Said she, ''Twas here we met
Sympathy you have shown me dear
That day I can't regret
A son you've been to me.' 'Ah! mother dear,' said he

Written and composed by Weston/Barnes & C. W. Murphy
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