Classic Poem

One day I went thirty miles a-foot with my old Walker, across hills and dales, calling on Gipsy house-dwellers in the little villages, or talking over old times as we went. Now and then he would point out a place in the grass where a Gorgio (white man) could see nothing, but there he would show me exactly where his brother or uncle had camped, perhaps years ago. So we two passed by Virginia Water, and across Saint Ann's Hill, and through Staines, where another good friend of mine had a great fight at the last races, and then went homeward to my hotel, called Oatlands, near Walton. And he carried my coat. But as we walked, we passed very few public-houses without going in, for my coat weighed almost a pound, and my carrier, of course, needed now and then a drop of ale. By and by, towards the end of the day, my old friend began to turn it over in his head, and reflect that I had a way of giving him a half-crown; and, to remind me of it, while he was dancing and shaking himself on the road, he sang, in a very jolly voice, this song—
“My children are hungry—bungry—wungry,
They're dying of the bitter cold—diddle diddle dum
They haven't any victuals—skittles—tittles,
They're perishing in poverty—tum teedle tum!
My little tent's in tatters—hatters—scatters,
All in rags a-flyin'—highin'—skyin'.
The cold wind a-blowin'—lowin'—owin',
All night I hear it whistle—sissel—diddle.
All night we're a-cryin'—for a bit o' bread a-dyin'.
My babes ha' got no mother—nor father—nother.
Certainly I should die, but for my master standing by
I am poor—boor—oor!
Diddle dum dum, dum dum,
Diddle, dim—dam—dum,
High diddle diddle.”
And when we came to the end (corner) of the road, I gave him his half-crown. So the old fellow got off the road, and went home as quiet and good as a lamb.